


Hidden Truths (prequel to Snow White Queen)

by MorsXmordrE



Series: Daughters of Darkness, Sisters Insane [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Blood and Gore, Bullying, Canon Rewrite, Character Development, Child Abuse, Criminal Masterminds, Death Eaters, Denial of Feelings, Dom/sub Undertones, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hogwarts, Invasion of Privacy, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Murder, Obsession, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Origin Story, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Possessive Voldemort, Psychological Torture, Psychology, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Public Humiliation, Sexual Fantasy, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, Torture, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, Well-Meaning Albus Dumbledore, Wizarding Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2019-10-16 03:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 171,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17542151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorsXmordrE/pseuds/MorsXmordrE
Summary: Harry Potter has just been decimated by the basilisk. Ginny Weasley’s lifeless body lies on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets. Lord Voldemort has risen from his diary, determined not to repeat the mistakes that led to his downfall on Halloween of 1981. He reflects on his past actions and gains more power over the years, while a young girl across the Atlantic is growing up feeling a lot like he did as a child. Little does he know that, come 2004, she will unintentionally throw a wrench in his plans—or at least send him on an unexpected detour. A detour that he just might enjoy after all.





	1. Tom | May – December 1993

**Author's Note:**

> *** I own no copyrights of any concepts in the Harry Potter universe, and I make no money from these writings. My stories are for entertainment only.
> 
> *** Canon semi-compliance, including some copied text from the books and movies, spans from CoS to HBP.

 

I won't suffer, be broken, get tired, or wasted  
Surrender to nothing  
Or give up what I started and stopped it  
From end to beginning  
A new day is coming, and I am finally free

—Thirty Seconds to Mars ~ “Attack”

 

My patience was about to be rewarded. After residing in my diary for fifty years as a splintered soul, I was about to be fully restored to human form. Ginny Weasley was lying on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets, slipping closer to death and bringing me closer to life with each passing second. I smirked at her clutching the diary as if her life depended on it. How ironic.

A few loud crashes sounded near the Chamber entrance. A long pause followed, broken by a man shouting, _“OBLIVIATE!”_ A low rumble preceded the slew of rocks toppling to the ground. There was only one explanation: Harry Potter had come to rescue his little princess. 

I stood in the shadows and watched the scrawny git climb down the ladder into the cavern where I waited. Frozen in horror, his green eyes fixed on the pathetic Weasley girl. I willed myself not to laugh as he sprinted over to her and begged her to wake up.

When I grew tired of this, I decided it was time to reveal myself. I stepped out of the shadows and announced, “She won’t wake.” 

The boy looked up and gasped. 

“Tom!” he exclaimed, fear and confusion written all over his soot-covered face. “Tom Riddle! What do you mean, she won’t wake? She’s not—”

“She’s still alive, but only just.”

He clearly didn’t comprehend the situation. How he’d managed to survive this long was beyond me. Was he really that dense?

“Are you a ghost?” the dense boy asked me.

“A memory,” I replied flatly. “Preserved in a diary for fifty years.” I gestured to the little black book that had gotten all of us here.

“You’ve got to help me, Tom. We’ve got to get out of here. There’s a basilisk...I don’t know where it is, but it could be along any moment....please, help me!” 

He returned his attention to the dying Weasley girl and resumed begging her to awaken. I reached down and picked up his wand.

He stood up and narrowed his eyes upon realizing that I was not handing him the instrument. “Give me my wand, Tom,” he said with a slight hint of apprehension.

_Do you get it now, you stupid brat? Let’s see how long it takes you to realize that you’re in mortal peril. It’s all right, I’ve got plenty of time. More than you ever will._

“Listen, we’ve _got to go!_ If the basilisk comes—” 

“It won’t come until it’s called.”

“What do you mean? Look, give me my wand, I might need it—”

“You won’t be needing it.” I replied with a smirk.

The little pipsqueak looked even more confused than before, but pressed on. “What do you mean, I won’t be—” 

“I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” I drawled. “For the chance to see you. To speak to you.”

“Look, I don’t think you get it. We’re in the _Chamber of Secrets._ We can talk later—”

“We’re going to talk now.” I pocketed Harry’s wand, savoring my long-awaited power over this worthless little boy.

And so he finally began to understand what was happening. Since he would never be able to share the events that had transpired over the past year, I revealed everything. He was utterly dumbfounded at how easily I had manipulated Ginny, and enraged that he could not reverse the damage. 

To add insult to injury, I wrote my full name in the air with Harry’s wand, gloating over the boy’s horror as the letters rearranged themselves from TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE to I AM LORD VOLDEMORT. 

He thought he had me cornered as he sang his praises of the fool Dumbledore, especially in the old codger’s defense of the bumbling Hagrid, but I quickly turned the tables: I strode over to the statue of Salazar Slytherin and summoned the basilisk. As the mouth of the statue lowered slowly, I sneered at Harry.

“Now, Harry, I’m going to teach you a little lesson,” I taunted. “Let’s match the powers of Lord Voldemort, heir of Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter!”

The boy turned around and began to sprint toward the ladder as he heard the basilisk slithering out from behind the statue.

 _“Kill him!”_ I ordered in Parseltongue.

Potter flinched, having understood the command. 

“Parseltongue won’t save you now, Potter; it only evades me!” I called out.

Harry ran even faster upon hearing my words—until he tripped over his own feet. His glasses flew off and fell to the Chamber floor a few feet away. As he scrambled to pick them up, the basilisk lunged forward, mouth agape. It devoured the boy within seconds, silencing his screams as its fangs tore open his flesh and ripped his organs apart. I relished the sound of his bones being ground into nothingness. 

And just like that, my enemy was gone.

The basilisk turned around and slithered back to me.

 _“Well done,”_ I hissed.

 _“Thank you, massster. I enjoyed myself immensssssely,”_ the basilisk replied, munching on the last bits of flesh and bone. I chuckled and sent the beast back inside its lair behind the statue of Salazar Slytherin. 

A few minutes later, Ginny Weasley took her last breath. I inhaled deeply and stretched my arms with a triumphant grin. My sixteen-year-old body had been fully restored, never to change in the slightest, and I could finally finish what my great ancestor had started. 

I twirled Potter’s wand in my fingers a few times before pocketing it once more. I then strolled around the Chamber for a few minutes, thinking that I might just sit here for a little while and reflect on this momentous hour. Unfortunately, another loud crash changed my plans. I walked toward the sound and discovered a hole in the rock formation by the chamber entrance about a hundred feet back. A redheaded boy was throwing rocks onto the chamber floor to make an opening large enough to crawl through. 

“HARRY! GINNY!” he shouted desperately. “CAN YOU HEAR ME! I SHIFTED ENOUGH OF THE ROCK AND YOU CAN CLIMB BACK THROUGH! WE CAN GET OUT OF HERE!”

He paused. 

“Harry?” he asked again, with considerably less volume. 

 _“Harry! Harry!”_ I responded in a mocking tone. _“Help me, Harry!”_  

“WHO IS THAT?! DO YOU HAVE HARRY!! WHERE’S MY SISTER!!” 

 _Ahh, so the ginger is Ginny’s brother. It looks like Mummy and Daddy are losing two children tonight. What a tragedy._  

“You obviously didn’t hear our little discussion, silly boy; your dear friend and sister are dead.”

“NO! NO! WHY?” he choked. “Har-ryyyy!” He began climbing through the hole he had created in the pile of rocks.

“Harry? Who is this Harry?” piped up a groggy yet cheerful male voice from behind the ginger. “My head hurts. Is there a Healer anywhere? I feel off.” 

 _What on Earth was_ that  _about?_

“WHO ARE YOU AND WHY DID YOU KILL MY BEST FRIEND!!” the ginger bellowed.

I pointed Harry’s wand at his friend and said, “Nothing that need concern you, young lad. _Avada Kedavra!”_

Killed by his best friend’s wand. I’ll bet Harry never saw _that_ coming.

The Weasley boy toppled over and hit the floor of the Chamber with a loud _thud._ His confused companion attempted to get up, but I was too quick. I silenced him with another flash of green light from Potter’s wand. And finally, all was quiet.

 _Now_ I could think. 

I removed my diary from the Weasley girl’s cold hands and stashed it in my robes. After smiling at the image of my revered ancestor, I folded my arms and leaned against one of the snake statues.  _What to do?_ I asked myself. _Where do I begin? How do I pick up where I left off?_ I smirked at my reflection in a puddle of water on the floor—I looked just as devilishly handsome as I had in my Hogwarts days, and I was still wearing the school robes I loved so much. Oh, how I had missed this. My young body, my school, my robes...all of it.

Tracing the fabric of my sleeves, I reflected on everything that had led up to this point. After splitting my soul into seven pieces and being preserved inside a diary for fifty years, even that small gesture was thrilling—being able to touch something. Being able to stand, breathe, smell the air, and feel my robes on my skin was rejuvenating. What an eventful evening. 

I couldn’t linger, though. I had too much to do.

As much as I would have loved to remain at my beloved school, I knew that step one was to get out of Hogwarts and find a place to stay. Malfoy Manor seemed the ideal location. Not that Lucius would actually be able to refuse me, of course. Since I’d entrusted him with my diary, surely I could count on him to provide lodging until I could get my affairs in order and find somewhere to live by myself. He wouldn’t actually want me living under his roof, so the tension about to bloom in his mansion would be mutual—though, more than likely, amusing for me as I could toy with his mind while there. He would no longer be the king of his castle.

But first, I had to send him a message and alert him to my impending arrival. That was the most important task today.

_Time to get started._

I took one last look around, and then climbed up the ladder out of the main Chamber room and into the tunnel. Once I found the bone-littered entryway at the bottom of the slide, I cast Disillusionment and Levitating charms, and flew up the passageway into the girls’ bathroom. 

“Who’s there?” squeaked a young girl’s voice as I walked around the sinks and closed the entrance to the Chamber. “Harry? Have you returned? Where are you?”

_Ah, Myrtle, you still haven’t moved on. Predictable as ever, you are._

I ignored the simpering ghost of my victim from fifty years past and strolled out of the bathroom, smirking at the knowledge that Harry and his friends would never be discovered. At least I had been considerate enough to have Ginny write her own fairwell on the castle wall before bringing her down into the Chamber, alerting everyone to her final resting place. Someone at Hogwarts would surely possess enough common sense to infer that she had taken the three missing wizards with her.

There was a lull about the school which, though uncommon, reminded me of the atmosphere when I had been a fifth-year student. Myrtle had perished after locking eyes with the basilisk, no one knew where the chamber was or if if could be reopened, and most of the students had feared being the next victim. Funny how my fondness for Hogwarts was the only thing that had stopped me from releasing the basilisk again and attacking more Muggleborn students. Lucky little blighters, they were. They didn’t deserve it. 

I wandered the corridors for several minutes, basking in the flood of memories returning to me. Once I’d gotten my bearings, I went to the library and slinked around to find supplies. I was able to steal a quill, an inkbottle, and a piece of parchment off a table where students weren’t paying attention to their surroundings, and quickly penned a letter to Lucius Malfoy. Once out of the library, I strolled toward to the owlery. I plucked an envelope from the stack against the wall, sealed my letter, and attempted to hand it to one of the owls for delivery.

Apparently, the owls were not accustomed to receiving letters from invisible persons. A cacophony of squawks and frantically fluttering wings filled the room, and I had to retreat.

 _Fabulous. Absolutely fabulous. Just what I needed._  

I scoffed and reluctantly removed my Disillusionment charm after making sure that no one was approaching. I slipped into the shadows and waited, resisting the urge to tap my foot impatiently, while the owls calmed down. Once the room had returned to normal, I slowly approached a different owl with the letter. The bird regarded me thoughtfully.

“Take this to Lucius Malfoy,” I instructed, trying my best to sound quiet and friendly. The owl snatched the letter in its beak and flew off. I walked to the window and watched the bird disappear, just to make sure it really was following instructions. Once it was out of sight, I cast another Disillusionment charm and exited the owlery.

A creeping sadness and anger filled me as I walked through the familiar halls. Why should I have to leave? Hogwarts was my home. I wanted to stay here. As happy as I was with Lucius having helped orchestrate my resurrection, I didn’t actually _want_ to stay with him. He may have been a trustworthy Death Eater, but he was also a spineless coward and I didn’t want to interact with him unless I absolutely had to. I wanted to be alone. 

_Well, this will just be another test of Malfoy’s competence and trustworthiness as a Death Eater. Let’s get going._

After thinking for a moment, I recalled the location of the castle’s secret passageway that led to Honeydukes’ cellar. I felt quite undignified, creeping through the castle like a disobedient student trying to avoid punishment, but I had no other way out. At least no one could see me in such an unflattering position.

I Apparated to the entrance of Malfoy Manor as soon as I entered Honeydukes, and began slowly pacing around the walkway to await entry.

About fifteen minutes passed before the familiar ice-blonde locks finally emerged from the front door. Lucius looked around and cautiously padded toward the gate. He stopped short when he saw me—he obviously wasn’t expecting to see someone who appeared to be a student in Hogwarts robes, but there we were.

“Evening, Lucius,” I said quietly. “I assume you received my owl.” 

“Y-yes, my Lord. I just—Dobby just finished preparing the guest room on the third floor,” he replied, trying desperately to appear calm and in control. The exact opposite of what he felt. I didn’t need to be the world’s most powerful Legilimens to see that Malfoy was scared out of his mind. Too bad for him. He reluctantly granted me access to his fortress and led me inside. 

Step One was complete.

*   *   *

Settling into Malfoy Manor was exactly as awkward as I’d expected it to be. I liked the room Lucius and Narcissa had cleared out for me, but it still wasn’t _mine._ However, considering the circumstances from whence I came, it was acceptable. I had just spent the past fifty years in a bloody diary—anything was better than that. 

The Malfoys were baffled by my appearance. A few weeks after my arrival, Lucius had the brazenness to ask me why I looked so young. I told him that I was now immortal and I could therefore choose the age I appeared; and as I’d matured slightly faster than average and looked more twenty than sixteen, I settled with that. The latter part of that statement was false—I was, of course, immortal, but I looked as I did at sixteen because that was my age when I’d turned the diary into a Horcrux.

Lucius had no business knowing about my Horcruxes. No one did. Though he was thoroughly disturbed and awe-struck at my achievement, there was nothing he could do about it.

One thing he _had_ been able to do was protect Nagini in my absence. Before the fractured part of me disappeared into Albania, I had sent Nagini to live at Malfoy Manor, in case anything happened to me when I killed the Potters. Caring for her had been a daunting task for Lucius, as she did not appreciate his attempts to cage her inside a room—as a Maledictus, being caged inside an animal’s body was difficult enough. She had apparently destroyed many doors and windows before Lucius got the message; however, she was in perfect health when I arrived at Malfoy Manor, so I couldn’t complain. Lucius bowed and mumbled his thanks as I praised his snake-rearing abilities. 

Nagini was the only companion I was happy to have at Malfoy Manor. Not only did she harbor a piece of my soul, but she was also a unique creature I simply liked having around. I especially enjoyed being able to speak with her and not have anyone understand the subject matter. Being a Parselmouth was a wonderful gift.

As just one more way for me to remind Lucius who had the upper hand in his house, I made a point to carry out loud and lengthy Parseltongue conversations with Nagini. And oh, was he _dying_ to ask me what the snake and I were discussing.

 _“What does Lucius think we’re talking about?”_ Nagini hissed at me one evening as we strolled about the house, discussing Narcissa’s choice in décor. This was the first time she and I had communicated outside the confines of my bedroom, and it was hard not to laugh at the Malfoys’ reactions. 

 _“He thinks I’m plotting to kill him, or set you on one of his peacocks if he displeases me,”_ I replied. 

_“The birds are too big—unless you plan to cut them into pieces and give them to me as separate meals before they rot. If you’re going to feed me a Malfoy, I’d prefer Draco. He’s smaller and easier to digest. And he’s so annoying. I can’t stand him.”_

_“Neither can I, dear. Oh, look! Here’s his mother. What do you reckon she thinks we’re discussing?”_

_“Probably the truth, at this point. Ohh, wow. Look at the expression on her face! You probably have a better view from up there—”_

_“Yes, I can see her abject terror from here. She doesn’t look nearly as dignified as she thinks she is when she’s scared, now does she.”_

_“Not at all. Given the scent coming off of her, I think she just wet herself.”_

_“It’s moments like these when I’m glad I don’t have your superior sense of smell.”_

_“I thought about chewing holes in her robes the other day because she kept staring at me and it was aggravating. I wasn’t actually going to eat her; I just wanted to scare her enough that she’d stop bothering me.”_

_“You have my full permission to do that if she doesn’t respect you. As long as we’re here, you are the lady of the house. Scales and fangs notwithstanding. You’re infinitely more formidable than she’ll ever be.”_

And on and on it went. The Malfoys never got used to the Parseltongue, as I limited its frequency so that it always caught everyone off-guard. I made a point to bring Nagini around for a walk and chit-chat when I was particularly displeased with one of my blonde servants—sometimes we discussed the offender’s behavior, and sometimes we discussed topics as innocuous as the weather and Lucius’s obsession with his snake cane. I simply needed to keep psychological control over my hosts. 

Lucius was terrified of Nagini, but liked to pretend he wasn’t. Of course. However, during my absence, he had apparently spent a lot of time observing her, attempting to level with her and assuage his fear. Nagini told me that they’d spent several terse hours just watching each other, each silently daring the other to do something dramatic. It never happened. The only dramatic thing she’d done was to put up a fight about not having the run of the house. 

Nagini was much more observant and coherent than the Malfoys realized. In my absence, they gave her clues to their personalities that they would have otherwise kept hidden—but they were, of course, on their best behavior now. I began taking Nagini for walks around the grounds when I needed to get out of the house, during which she would regale me with stories of fights between father and son, Narcissa’s insecurities, and Draco’s fear of being upstaged at Hogwarts. I could definitely use such information to my advantage if necessary. I could only imagine Lucius’s face if he disobeyed me and I retaliated by mentioning a private conversation of his:

 _“Lucius, why did you have Dobby give me the earl grey tea when I specifically requested English breakfast? You thought I wouldn’t notice?”_

_“Oh, no, my Lord—I—I suppose I may have overlooked—”_

_“Might you have also overlooked the fact that Narcissa wasn’t in the mood for you last night, but you kept pestering her for half an hour? Should I be concerned about your sudden inability to follow instructions? Nagini hears everything, you know.”_

_—cue deathly silence—_

I figured that several such exchanges would occur before Lucius got his act together. In the meantime, I had work to do.

*   *   *

Harry Potter’s wand functioned well enough, but it hindered my work because the instrument hadn’t chosen me. It resisted my power. The wand technically _was_ mine—I had murdered its owner and had therefore won it from him—but it didn’t feel the same as my own wand. 

I had no idea where my wand was.

This was a subject I had been avoiding since departing the Chamber of Secrets. Could I travel by Apparition for a few days, arriving in Albania to communicate directly with the non-corporeal part of myself? More than likely, but that piece of me was not able to hold a wand, so it couldn’t help me. Where was my wand? What had happened to it after I’d killed the Potters? Maybe one of my followers had retrieved it from the scene. 

Many Death Eaters were surely shaking in their boots, having seen their Dark Marks blacken upon my ascension from the diary, but others were likely waiting for me to make contact at this very moment. They could hold onto their anticipation for a bit longer; I wasn’t ready for them yet. I needed to first acclimate myself to this new time period and locate my own wand. As hilariously ironic as it would be, I refused to use my dead enemy’s wand for eternity.

As it so happened, I didn’t have to wait too long. One morning during breakfast, an owl zoomed into the dining room with a parcel for me. Baffled, I accepted the package and began to unwrap it.

My wand was inside. 

I grinned broadly as I read the attached note:

_  
My Lord,_

_I discovered this upon your disappearance and have kept it hidden in a loose floorboard of my residence since then._  
_I knew you had returned when my Dark Mark turned black a few weeks ago. I await your summons._

_W._

 

“Is—is that your wand, my Lord?” Narcissa asked quietly.

“Yes. One of your comrades kept it while I was gone, and was smart enough to return it to me.”

“Who was it, my Lord?” 

“None of your concern.” 

The Malfoys flinched and then returned to their food.

I wouln’t tell them that W stood for Wormtail, the nickname of Peter Pettigrew. I had no idea where the errant Death Eater was living or how he’d hidden my wand, but he’d done it all the same. I’d certainly have to ask him about it when I was ready to call everyone back to my table.

I’d never trusted Wormtail. He was only out for himself. He joined me out of fear and desire for power and glory, not from a belief in my mission. Nevertheless, the little lump of a man deserved _some_ reward for protecting my wand for so many years. What would he receive? I’d have to think on that.

 _What should I do with Potter’s wand?_ I thought, twirling my own wand in my fingers before pocketing it in my robes next to Harry’s. I’d been able to work magic with it well enough, but I suspected that one of the wands might malfunction or cause me harm if it sensed that I was using its brother. Keeping it wasn’t worth the risk.

I resolved to destroy Harry’s wand immediately after breakfast. I took it out into the backyard and broke it in half, and then set the pieces on the ground. After retrieving my own wand, I stepped back and shouted, _“REDUCTO MAXIMA!”_ The remains of Harry’s wand exploded into useless splinters, scattering dirt and grass everywhere. I was so enthusiastic when casting this spell, I even made the ground tremble and the Malfoys’ peackocks scatter in fear. I sneered in satisfaction.

Until  Narcissa screamed. She must have heard—and felt—the commotion.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON?!” she shrieked, running out into the backyard with her wand extended. “IS THERE AN INTRUDER?! WHAT IS—oh.” She stiffened and quickly lowered her wand.

“Hello, Narcissa!” I called out with mock cheerfulness. “Fine day to destroy Harry Potter’s wand, I reckon. Absolutely perfect.”

“I—I see. Ah—I’m glad you succeeded, my Lord. I was just—” 

“Startled, yes. I can see that. Don’t worry, I didn’t cause an earthquake.”

Narcissa’s face was priceless as she backed away and quietly closed the patio door. Ignoring the mortified woman, I strode around the backyard, basking in the adrenaline rush of once again holding my own wand.

The backyard was unbelievably spacious. And it had to be, considering that it housed a family of gigantic white peacocks. The birds were ambivalent to my presence when I arrived, but scattered in fear each time they saw me after I’d blown up Harry’s wand. That was fine by me—it gave me more space to move around. I couldn’t be stuck inside the house all day, as large as it was. I found myself thinking more clearly in the fresh air and greenery, and I decided that I would resume my magical experimentation there. 

I needed to learn as much as I could. Just because I was now immortal didn’t mean that I wanted to slack on perfecting my skills; there would never be enough information to satisfy my thirst for knowledge.

Inventing spells and fine-tuning my technique often resulted in _booms_ and  _bangs_ and brief tremors of the ground. Lucius and Narcissa quickly learned not to bother me during these moments, but their son missed the memo. One afternoon, I was pacing the backyard, deep in thought after one spell had gone badly wrong. I was ruminating on what had happened and how I could fix it—mere seconds away from a solution when a high-pitched voice called out, “LOOK WHAT I JUST MADE THIS PEACOCK DO!!”

I jerked my head around to see Draco leading one of the peacocks around in circles. No one would ever consider this a brilliant feat, but the pompous young Malfoy must have fancied himself the Peacock Whisperer. I was not amused.

I pointed my wand at the boy and growled, _“Stupefy!”_ He flew backward about ten feet and landed on his rear. The peacock he’d been “training” squawked and ran off. After stomping over to the scene and reviving Draco, I grabbed the boy’s robes and pulled him to his feet.

“Didn’t your parents tell you not to disturb me?!” I scolded. “Do you not realize who I am?!”

“Yes, my Lord, I...I know who you are. I’m sor—”

“I was just solving a complex problem, and you distracted me moments before the solution came to me. Do you understand what you’ve done, Draco? Do you realize how angry I am? You do not make Lord Voldemort angry!”

The boy trembled and looked away from me. I pretended not to see his terrified parents standing on the patio and watching me berate their son—they needed this lesson as much as Draco did, having neglected to teach him manners. I grabbed the boy’s chin and forced him to look up at me.

“When you are around me, you do not speak unless spoken to, and you address me respectfully. You do not scream at me and order me to pay attention to your silly little games. You do not interrupt me when I am working, unless it’s an emergency. I don’t give a _damn_ about your peacock nonsense! I will not pretend to be excited about your _accomplishments_ to make you feel good about yourself, just because your parents do! Do you understand?” 

“Yes, m-my Lord,” Draco stammered, blushing furiously and fighting back tears. He pressed his quivering lips together and averted his eyes once more. 

“I did not tell you to look away from me, boy! You will look at me when I speak to you! This will teach you to stop disrespecting me: _Crucio!”_

Draco screamed and collapsed on the ground. I lifted the curse and pointed my wand at the distressed Lucius and Narcissa, who had just begun running toward us. They gasped and stopped dead in their tracks when they saw the look on my face.

I resumed torturing the boy for another minute or so before striding toward the house. 

“Don’t even _think_ about protesting, Lucius!” I snapped as I saw the man’s mouth open. “Your boy deserved that. This is not a negotiation. I will not speak of the issue again, and neither will you. Get back inside. All of you.” 

“Y-yes, my Lord,” he muttered. Narcissa’s eyes were brimming. 

The family slowly filed back into the house, heads bowed. Though relieved to be alone once more, I was still furious with Draco for having distracted me. I resumed pacing until I regained my original train of thought and solved my problem. I did not speak to any of the Malfoys for the rest of the day, and had Dobby bring my meals to my bedroom. I wanted everyone on tenterhooks.

*   *   * 

Like his parents, little Draco tiptoed around me from then on. This didn’t shock me; however, I _was_ surprised to discover an even younger occupant at the Manor: Lucius’s young cousin, Margo. The eight-year-old had recently come to live with Lucius and Narcissa upon the death of her father, Lucius’s uncle Hyperion. Like his brother, Abraxas, Hyperion had succumbed to Dragon Pox and left Margo an orphan. Her mother had died in childbirth. This little girl was quite peculiar in that, despite her young age, she acted about five years older than twelve-year-old Draco. I supposed that being orphaned had forced her to mature faster—something I could certainly understand. I found myself respecting her more than her older relatives. She was a very serious, withdrawn, no-nonsense child. 

Margo and Draco fought like siblings. Though they were both born into privilege and luxury, Draco was spoiled and Margo was not. Oblivious to her wealth, Margo wanted nothing but her dead parents. She often yelled at Draco when she heard him whining about yet another disappointment he’d blown out of proportion.

I made sure to be out of sight during these altercations. I didn’t wish to be involved, and I had better things to do than waste my energy participating in such folly. I had goals to accomplish. I needed to strategize and reformulate my original plans. I had to acclimate myself to this new time period. A lot could happen in fifty years, and listening to petty rich people squabble would not hasten my adjustment.

Malfoy Manor felt the same as it always did. I’d stayed here briefly after finishing at Hogwarts, having nowhere else to go; the orphanage where I grew up had been demolished, anyway. I stayed at the Manor until I began working at Borgin and Burkes and could rent a flat of my own. By this time, I had developed enough of a rapport with Lucius’s father, Abraxas, that he felt honored to host me. His brother Hyperion had been indifferent—he’d seen Abraxas with me so often at Hogwarts, that having me at the Manor had almost felt like an extension of our school days. I didn’t think much of Hyperion, as he was rather dull and aloof, but never breathed a word of this to Abraxas. He would have been flabbergasted had his godlike best friend insulted his little brother.

Abraxas and I met in our first year at Hogwarts, as quiet and ambitious Slytherins, and he was drawn to me immediately. He even began adopting some of my mannerisms after a while—I’d clearly made quite an impression on the young Malfoy. I enjoyed his company sometimes; but there were other moments when I wanted to tell him to scram. Especially as little Hyperion kept tagging along after us. Abraxas was trying to cement himself as my closest confidante, and Hyperion kept embarrassing him. Their dynamic was interesting to witness, and allowed me to size up Abraxas more accurately—observing the way he conducted himself in the face of filial obstacles gave me a better idea of how he would perform when given more stressful tasks. Like becoming my first Death Eater. 

I’m not sure I’ve ever truly considered anyone a friend; but if I had, it would have been Abraxas. We did have some shared interests and could carry on a conversation well enough. I found him a fascinating study: he possessed the standard Malfoy pride and pompousness at being a wealthy Pureblood, along with a primal fear of being unworthy. He lived in constant fear of disappointing his parents, professors, and friends. Especially me.

He likely found me fascinating, too, though in a different way. I wasn’t interested in understanding the full extent of that.

Abraxas and I being “best friends”—his words, not mine—became common knowledge at Hogwarts by the time we’d entered our third year. Abraxas felt very smug about this, but I was ambivalent. So we worked together in class. So we sat together during meals. Why did we need a special title? Why did Abraxas tie so much of his self-worth to his association with me? It irritated me, as I was less interested in making friends and more interested in acquiring followers. I wanted people who would cater to my every whim. And someone clamoring to sit next to me at dinner was useless unless they could actually follow orders properly. 

I observed a flicker of fear in his normally haughty demeanor once I revealed some of my goals to him in our fifth year, but the thought of wielding power through loyalty to me was too tempting for him to turn his back. He eventually invited me home after our sixth year, once he’d established himself as my right hand.

His parents absolutely adored me. He had already informed them of my imminent ascension from brilliant Hogwarts student to powerful overlord of Dark magic, and they were enthralled. Since the Malfoys wanted to be on the right side of history, fully entrenched in privilege and glory, they jumped at the chance to prove their worth to me. I basked in their performance. By the time Abraxas and I graduated from Hogwarts, his entire family was addressing me as “my Lord” and they promised that I’d always be welcome in their home. I stayed there all summer, saving money from my job at Borgin and Burkes before setting out on my own.

I continued to visit the Malfoys, though less frequently as the years passed. I was busy making money and searching for magical artifacts to turn into Horcruxes. But I still dutifully responded to all their letters—even though they were serving me as Death Eaters, they still considered me a third son. I never told them that a small part of me enjoyed that fondness. A very, very small part.

I was the first to hear about all the news in the Malfoy family. A lot of their letters were filled with Abraxas’s parents’ worries that Hyperion would never find a wife—his personality was a tad off-putting. (He must have eventually married after I’d disappeared into Albania, because I never met his wife or learned of Margo’s birth until now.) I disregarded this fluff, as I cared not for Hyperion’s status in life.

The most dramatic events I heard from the Malfoys were the death of Abraxas’s parents, followed by his marriage and the birth of Lucius. I observed the child closely and watched him grow up to be much like his father. Before I began my travels in researching Dark magic, I told Abraxas that Lucius would need to become a Death Eater when he was of age. Abraxas beamed with pride.

Lucius followed in his father’s footsteps, as the saying goes, and I trusted him enough to safeguard my diary before I departed to throw myself into the Dark Arts. Though I knew he could properly protect the Horcrux, I did not tell him that my trip had been prompted by a failed attempt at becoming the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I wanted to be back at Hogwarts, learning whatever magical processes I could at the school and passing on my vast knowledge to future generations. Unfortunately, the venerated Dumbledore did not trust me with his students, and even went so far as to tell me I didn’t want to teach—though he didn’t know exactly what I was up to, he did realize that my motives were not entirely pedagogical.

I was incensed. _No one_ said no to Lord Voldemort. _No one_ denied me that which I desired. But there was Albus Dumbledore, thwarting my plans, and seeming to gloat in doing so. 

I disappeared shortly thereafter, only resurfacing to begin my first reign of terror after I had created and hidden all of my Horcruxes. Abraxas was the first of my followers to join me, accompanied by a teenage Lucius, his girlfriend Narcissa, and Narcissa’s older sister Bellatrix. Though Bellatrix was engaged to Rodolphus Lestrange, she suddenly became more interested in me. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. I’d never had a girlfriend, nor expressed interest in one, though I had bedded a fair amount of willing witches at Hogwarts. I enjoyed the act, but I’d never cared for any of my partners; the weakness of love was a distraction from productivity and success. And I would never let a girl convince me otherwise.

Bellatrix and Rodolphus soon married and became valuable Death Eaters, so the loyalties of the girl’s heart didn’t matter to me. She was pretty, though. I may have been the most powerful Dark wizard in the world, but I was also a man. And I did have certain needs that had not been met in quite some time. At her insistence, I began bedding her every so often when Rodolphus was not paying attention. Which was quite often. The boy was clueless. And even if he hadn’t been clueless, Bellatrix insisted that her husband was carrying on with a female werewolf. He was rumored to have fathered a child with the lycan, which gave Bellatrix every right to shag other wizards if she chose. I didn’t need to know her motivations for jumping into bed with me; she knew it was a purely physical venture and nothing more. We’d only run into problems if she tried to _make_ the arrangement something more.

Though an enjoyable activity, frolicking in between the sheets with Bellatrix was not my biggest focus—I needed control. Authority. My forces grew over the next couple of years, replete with werewolves, trolls, giants, and the like. I was drunk on power and determined to amass as much of it as possible.

And then I received a letter from Lucius and his now-wife Narcissa, telling me that Abraxas was dead. I was aggravated that I had lost my first and best Death Eater. His son seemed relatively useful, but he hadn’t lived long enough to serve me for as many years as his father had done. I certainly couldn’t share in Lucius’s grief; my mother had died giving birth to me and I had murdered my father and grandparents for abandoning me. I couldn’t exactly offer sympathy to the grieving Lucius. I traveled to Malfoy Manor for an afternoon to offer Lucius “support”—really, to see if any of the mourners could one day join my ranks. I wasn’t drenched in despair like the rest of them. It was a boring, awkward experience.

I had never felt a deep attachment to Abraxas, but I had appreciated his admiration. His devotion to me had always been two-pronged, however: he enjoyed my company while also viewing me as a status symbol. A frightfully insecure boy underneath all the bravado, he’d latched onto anything and anyone that would elevate his social status...and I had been the ultimate prize. He, like many of my followers, carried this mentality throughout his life.

The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. 

I didn’t respect Lucius as much as I’d respected his father, but he had his uses. He was a revered, wealthy Pureblood wizard like his father had been, he could follow orders well enough, and he was a decent host. I knew I could stay with him until I’d figured out how to regain my independence.

Though some less-than-human piece of me was floating around in Albania, more than likely possessing the bodies of snakes to stay mobile, I wasn’t up-to-date on the events of this new time period. I needed to remedy this. 

Reading the Malfoys’ copy of _The Daily Prophet_ after breakfast became a morning ritual. I typically took my meals with the Malfoys—less from a desire to socialize and more from an interest in observing their dynamic—and then I brought the paper to my room. 

This venture turned out to be the best way to learn of current events. I kept each newspaper Lucius passed to me and read through them all several times before disposing of them, in order to become knowledgeable about the happenings of 1993.

In some ways, magic hadn’t changed much—unlike what I’d seen as a child in the Muggle world, magical folk were not obsessed with advancing technological processes as quickly as possible to appear flashy and inventive. Everyone still wrote with feather quills and possessed ample rolls of parchment. What was the purpose of changing that? Magic was, in some ways, infinitely more sophisticated than Muggle technology. We could Apparate, send mail by owl without knowing the recipient’s location, and use wands to complete most household tasks with ease. 

Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, seemed reasonably competent if not a bit skittish. He had begun sensing danger over the past year, but refused to accept the possibility of defeat against me—especially considering that no one knew who had killed Harry Potter and where the boy’s body lay. Many people were speculating that I may have been involved, but no one had a scrap of evidence. As usual, I had set a trap and left everyone wringing their hands. The _Prophet_ featured sporadic editorials speculating my whereabouts and possible culpability in Potter’s death, but no one’s ideas were anywhere near the truth—these people just wanted to feel important and make their voices heard. Some even blamed Fudge for not being proactive enough in searching for the Chamber of Secrets.

I found one particular editorial highly amusing. It was from a woman who believed that she alone possessed the sleuthing skills required to solve the all the biggest mysteries of the day. She rambled on about her friendship with Fudge, her certainty that Slytherin’s heir was a current Hogwarts student, and her fear that my followers would one day infiltrate the Ministry because Fudge wouldn’t face the truth.

All in good time, dear lady. All in good time. 

From the more serious sections of the paper, I also learned that Albus Dumbledore was still Headmaster of Hogwarts. Though this angered me, I wasn’t surprised; Dumbledore was a brilliant wizard and had always been able to wield immense influence over the school. I would have to keep a close watch on the events at the institution in order to infiltrate it one day.

Dumbledore would, of course, have to be eliminated. Though I would love to be the one to kill him, I didn’t want to attempt this at Hogwarts. His territory. He would likely have all manner of protections in place to shield himself from an attack, making it impractical for me to provoke him. I couldn’t chance running into one of his traps...getting injured in one of the many tricks up the old man’s sleeve...it wasn’t worth the risk. Someone else would probably have to do it for me—someone already inside the school. I stowed that fact in the back of my mind while I read the paper each morning.

I chuckled as I read article after article speculating on the whereabouts of the Chamber of Secrets and its dead occupants. Dumbledore had considered closing Hogwarts after my four victims had disappeared into its depths—especially since his precious Harry had been among them—but too many people had begged for the institution to remain open, especially given that there had been no further attacks. They wondered if perhaps Potter’s death had been the end goal, which was why the Chamber was now dormant!

Aurors and other Ministry workers pledged to double their efforts to locate the Chamber anyway, and some even volunteered to escort students to class to shield them from danger. Danger that had passed and would likely never surface again. I had already achieved what I’d set out to do inside the Chamber; I didn’t actually _want_ to kill magical children, apart from Harry. Ginny and Company had simply been collateral damage.

Despite the somber tone of the _Prophet_ upon the death of Harry and his friends, a gossip-column writer named Rita Skeeter was apparently running her mouth all over the newspaper. This couple got married, that one got divorced, this crotchety old codger finally died, this witch had an affair with that wizard and her son was traumatized. Why was Rita so interested in such trivialities? One would think that, as a middle-aged woman (though she appeared to be attempting to look much younger in her photos), she would have matured past teenage-level nattering to make herself feel important, but she had not. And people ate up this drivel with their breakfast every morning.

And then my Death Eaters wonder why I find most people boring. Asinine, the lot of them. Always trying to impress each other to maintain their imaginary status in life. 

Speaking of which...I found it humorous that Lucius always strutted about as if he owned every piece of land he set foot on, but suddenly had no idea how to act in his own home simply because I was under his roof. And immortal. I don’t think he was jealous of my newfound powers; he simply couldn’t stand not being in control. He was perched atop a house of cards manifested in his financial standing and Pureblood status which, though revered, could easily crumble if he made a large enough mistake. As proud as he was, his greatest fear was falling from grace and losing the iron-grip of control he desperately needed over his privilege and reputation. And it was suddenly much easier for him to slip with Lord Voldemort watching his every move.

Narcissa, on the other hand, was walking a tightrope no matter who was in her home. She didn’t work, so she depended on Lucius to maintain her family’s wealth. She took comfort in the widespread knowledge that her husband had the Minister of Magic wrapped around his little finger. And, like her husband, she was terrified that her life of luxury would one day end. She needed the safety of her privilege to feel secure about herself.

Lucius and Narcissa fed off of each other’s insecurities and enabled each other; so, naturally, their son Draco was an arrogant little prat. He once pretended not to know I was in the room while he loudly bragged to Lucius about having (almost) the highest in marks for his class—second only to one Hermione Granger, otherwise known as That Filthy Little Mudblood who refused to respect him. He wanted me to hear his words and praise him, but of course I didn’t. He didn’t deserve the satisfaction. If he wanted my praise, he would have to work for it. And he would have to do much more than study hard at Hogwarts for two years.

I suspected that Draco secretly fancied Hermione, given that he complained about her all summer, but he would rather die than admit it. Lucius told me that during the previous summer, when Draco hadn’t been moaning and groaning about Saint Potter, Granger was always the target of his insults. Lucius and Narcissa listened patiently while their bratty son went on and on about the gross injustices he faced at Hogwarts, having to stand in the unfairly-long shadows of Harry and his friends. After all this time, they were sick of hearing the same words over and over again. (And, quite frankly, so was I.) Potter was dead now, anyway. Why was Draco still prattling on about the boy? 

Margo was never present during Draco’s whining sessions—she knew him well enough to spot the exact moment his facial expression changed to Complaining Mode, and immediately skirted off to her room. Where she spent a great deal of time.

When she wasn’t perusing children’s books, she was relaxing by herself or going for walks with Narcissa. She was a peculiar girl, uninterested in toys made for children her age. I had not been, either; I’d been more focused on surviving and, once a Hogwarts student, devouring every book and magical process I could get my hands on. On some unspoken level, Margo and I understood each other.

The household dynamic shifted as Draco returned to Hogwarts for his third year. The Manor was quieter, and I often had the property to myself when Lucius worked and Narcissa took Margo for a trip out to the country. Draco wrote home often, complaining in his letters as much as he did at home. It became a habit for Lucius to read his son’s letters aloud to me over lunch, so I could get a better idea of what was going on at the school. I had to hold back a surge of laughter when I learned that my 1943 fall boy Rubeus Hagrid was now teaching Care of Magical Creatures...and one of his beasts had landed young Draco in the hospital wing with a broken arm. Lucius was furious, assuming that the villainous Hippogriff had attacked his poor, innocent son for no reason. I found his theory hard to believe, given Draco’s penchant for antagonizing humans and animals alike, but I allowed Lucius to go on a tirade over his precious child’s (easily healed) injury, thinking I actually cared. It was free entertainment. 

In other news, Draco’s imaginary girlfriend was on a rampage to avenge her best friends’ deaths. While listening to this content in Draco’s letters, I readied myself for a missive about another of Harry’s dopey friends...only to be met, instead, with the knowledge that this Granger girl had discovered more about the Chamber of Secrets than anyone before her. I was taken aback. My blood ran cold as Lucius told me of Hermione’s discovery, that the basilisk had been Petrifying students after traveling through the school’s plumbing.

I hadn’t the faintest idea how she’d figured that out. Draco’s words presented Hermione’s discovery as a ridiculous conspiracy theory, but I knew better.

This girl was clearly no Parselmouth, or she would have already attempted to locate and kill the basilisk, but I feared that she’d be able to learn more of my secrets if she kept investigating. Despite the fact that no one believed her, I still worried. I would definitely have to kill the girl if she discovered too much. If I returned to Hogwarts in the next four years, maybe I could set the basilisk on _her!_ That would be a delicious roast of poetic justice. 

But maybe I didn’t need to worry. The girl was thirteen and likely incapable of wielding any measurable influence over Hogwarts. And even if someone in power _did_ believe her, what could they do about it? The basilisk was back in hibernation inside its enclosure in the Chamber. No one, not even Hermione, knew where the Chamber was or how to open it. Lucius also remained ignorant on the particulars of the past year’s destruction, and therefore had no idea that Hermione’s conjecture was correct. I resolved to keep my thoughts to myself unless given a reason to do otherwise.

I couldn’t afford to ruminate on the girl’s suspicions, anyway; I needed to begin the process of rebuilding my ranks. 

Some were surely in hiding. Maybe others had been jolted out of a fool’s paradise upon seeing their Dark Marks blacken after several years. Others were likely frothing at the mouth, awaiting some imaginary reward for their undying loyalty. Learning everyone’s true colors would certainly be an adventure. 

I informed Lucius that he was to assist me in breaking the Lestranges out of Azkaban one weekend. They were my most trusted followers, and it would not do to have them rot in prison. Though Lucius was mildly fond of his sister-in-law, if not a bit scared of her, he was flabbergasted upon hearing my plan.

“How are we to achieve this, my Lord?” he asked with immense trepidation.

“We fly, of course,” I replied cheerfully. “Surely, you possess a broomstick or two?” 

“I—yes, my Lord. I have a couple left over from—”

“Splendid. We will fly to Azkaban together and break open their cells. I don’t want Bellatrix to see me at first, as she may grow distracted and stall us for long enough that she is re-captured, so I will stay out of her line of sight once we’ve located her cell. You will blast it open, have her get on your broom while I break open Rodolphus’s cell, and follow me back here. We’re going together in case we run into trouble and need to duel. You will retrieve their wands from the Ministry when you return to work on Monday.” 

“My Lord, it is the middle of December—”

“Haven’t you heard of a warming spell? Come off it, Lucius. Don’t be a coward. Are you a Death Eater or not?”

“Yes, yes, of course I am. As you wish, my Lord. When do we leave?” 

“Right now.” 

Lucius had to bite down another shudder of alarm, after which he nodded curtly and Summoned two broomsticks.

It was a typical blustery December day. The journey to Azkaban was rough, but we arrived unscathed.

We had to circle the prison several times before locating Bellatrix’s cell. When Lucius finally spotted her, he dove down toward it and shouted, _“BOMBARDA MAXIMA!”_ The cell’s outer wall and window shattered and fell into the ocean below. Bellatrix screamed in shock and bewilderment at seeing her brother-in-law. She did not notice me hovering about ten feet away.

“LUCIUS!” she screamed over the howling wind. “HOW DID YOU—”

“I’LL EXPLAIN LATER! THERE’S NO TIME! GET ON!” 

Bellatrix staggered out of her cell and, quite clumsily, positioned herself behind Lucius on his broomstick.

“WHERE’S RODOLPHUS?” Lucius demanded. 

“I DON’T KNOW! ARE YOU GOING TO BREAK HIM OUT, TOO?” 

At that moment, several Dementors began circling Bellatrix’s ruined cell. We couldn’t stay.

“WE’LL HAVE TO COME BACK FOR HIM ANOTHER TIME!” I called out to Lucius. 

“BUT CAN’T YOU—”

“I’M SORRY, BELLATRIX, BUT THERE’S NO TIME! WE NEED TO LEAVE! NOW!” Lucius yelled.

And then there was no sound, other than the wind. 

“WHO’S THAT?” I heard her shout as we made our getaway.

“A FRIEND OF MINE!” Lucius replied, as I’d instructed him—if he’d revealed my identity at this point, she could make a scene and ruin our plans. She might even fall off the broom in shock. As well-behaved as she normally was, there was no telling what years in Azkaban had done to her mind. She would need ample time to recover. 

We had the wind at our backs as we returned to Malfoy Manor, so the flight took considerably less time. 

 _“Who’s your friend?!”_ she hissed as we walked to the front gate. I’d deliberately stayed in front of them the entire time, not saying a word. 

“Just wait,” he whispered.

 _“I’ve_ been  _waiting! Why can’t you just—”_

“Shhhhh. Calm yourself.”

I smirked at her anticipation, but refused to turn around and reveal myself. I needed to wait until everyone was indoors.

Once secured inside the Malfoy fortress, Lucius cast warming and cleansing spells on Bellatrix to make her appear (and smell) slightly more presentable. No one could look completely normal in an Azkaban uniform, especially after having spent a decade in the prison’s halls of misery; but as long as she was here, she was safe. I slowly removed my winter gear as Lucius cast his spells.

“Who are you?” she called out. “Why did you help Lucius break me out? Why won’t you reveal yourself? I need to know who—”

I slowly turned to face her.

She gasped so loudly, I thought she might have a heart attack. It was hard not to laugh as one hand flew to her gaping mouth and the other to her heart. And _my,_ how her thoughts were racing. 

 _Is that HIM? How does he look so young?! How was he able to rescue me? I KNEW he’d come for me one day! I can’t EVER let him down! I will prove my loyalty to him again, in any way I can, for the rest of my life! And oh, Merlin, is he gorgeous...I’d still love to—_

And then she fainted. 

Lucius grabbed her just before she hit the ground, and helped her into a nearby chair. I regarded her thoughtfully as she regained her composure—what was left of it, anyway. Azkaban had certainly left its mark on my once-valiant warrior.

We stared at each other in crackling silence until she spoke.

“My Lord, I—I knew you had resurfaced! My Dark Mark had been growing more visible over the past several months! I knew it wouldn’t be long before you’d rescue me! I—”

“Bella, dear, relax,” I replied softly. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal. My first order for you is to rest and regain your strength. That could take weeks. Months, even.” 

“But I want to help you—” 

“Bella, that is an order.” I smiled faintly. “If you truly want to help me, help yourself grow strong again. Your brother-in-law is hosting me for as long as I need, so I will know if you're resting properly or not.”

She gasped—probably less at my instructions and more at the prospect of us living under the same roof—and quickly bowed her head. “Yes, my Lord,” she breathed. Lucius led her away to another guest room.

Bellatrix was probably mortified when she looked in the mirror—she mightn’t have wanted me to see her just yet, had she known exactly how disheveled she was.

Despite her appearance, I could tell that she was still beautiful under the wear and tear of Azkaban imprisonment. So she was sporting more gray hair and had lost a fair amount of weight since I’d last seen her, and she looked positively ragged. So she looked older than her forty-seven years. That wasn’t a problem; she would surely regain some of her former vitality once she'd settled in. The Malfoys would feed her well, buy her some new robes, and offer emotional support during her recovery. 

I distanced myself from Bellatrix for the first few weeks she spent at the Manor; I didn’t want her hanging off my arm and thinking more about my approval than her health. I had Narcissa tell her that I didn’t want to be disturbed (which was true, regardless) and that she needed to take time to recuperate. She reluctantly agreed after putting up a fight—which, in her weakened state, meant raising her voice and waving her arms around like a lunatic for about five minutes before she suddenly grew tired and needed to sit down. I only heard about this behavior through the Malfoys; they knew I had no interest in witnessing such a spectacle. 

I smiled as I thought back on the past several months. I had used my brilliance, patience, and persuasiveness to take the necessary steps to rise from one of my Horcruxes. I had rendered myself immortal. I had finally fulfilled the prophecy from all those years ago and killed my mortal enemy through my control over the basilisk. I had a place to stay, with no fear of being discovered. And I had my most trusted followers all under one roof.

In addition, I had more knowledge at my fingertips than most wizards would ever have. As the only immortal soul alive, forever young and strong, I was the greatest sorcerer in the world. I was finally on my way to realizing my lifelong goals of infinite knowledge, superhuman capability, and profound influence over magical folk. Protected through my Horcruxes, I was interminably more powerful than any wizard, past or present. And that would never change. I really was quite extraordinary. 

Nothing would stop me now.


	2. Alex | The Early Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place five years after Chapter 1. I’m giving everyone a heads-up now because Tom and Alex’s chapters will not be in sync for a while—hence my naming chapters by character and year.

Why can't you ever back down  
Why can't you just shut your face  
Oh god, the feelings I feel  
Would get me thrown in a cage  
You're the one who's always screaming at me  
I'm the one that keeps your lives so carefree  
What the fuck more do you want me to be  
Why must you do this to me

—KoRn ~ “Counting on Me”

 

“Alex, I made your bed!” my mother called out from behind the bathroom door. “You need to remember to do this yourself. You’re ten years old now; I shouldn’t have to remind you.” 

I sighed as I dropped my toothbrush in its mug and wrestled down the familiar rage bubbling in my stomach.

“Seriously?!” I shot back, throwing the door open. “I can’t even be awake for five minutes without doing something wrong?!” _My day is already ruined and it only just started._  

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady! You don’t even need a mother; you need a maid!”

“Mum! I was going to do it after I brushed my teeth—which I just finished five seconds ago! Gimme a chance!” 

“That’s baloney, Alex. Go get dressed and stop insulting my intelligence! You _need_ to be reminded!”

“No, I don’t! Just because I don’t make my bed the split-second I wake up doesn’t mean I won’t do it at all! Why can’t I just...be awake for a bit, first?”

“Because I know you’ll forget! You need to do it while it’s still fresh in your mind. This is how you develop personal responsibility. You can’t keep waiting for me to remind you of your chores before you finally do them. Trust me, you’ll thank me when you’re older.” 

“Oh my god, I don’t _wait_ for you to remind me! I need you to STOP reminding me! You act like I can’t do anything right without you following me around!”

“Alex, I _care_ about you! I want you to develop discipline. If I ignored you and let you do whatever you wanted, just to avoid an argument, that would make me terribly irresponsible.”

_Actually, I would kill for you to ignore me most days. I want that more than anything in the world._

I snarled at the floor and stomped down the hall. 

“Wipe that puss off your face and stop storming around like a three-year-old! I’ve never known any child who is so sensitive, they fly into a rage when told to just make their bloody bed! None of my friends’ kids do that; they all do their chores without complaint. They don’t throw tantrums the way  _you_ do! Grow up!”

I whirled around and growled. “Okay, first of all, I’m not sensitive! Stop calling me that every time I get angry! And you really think I’d even _want_ to make my bed now?! I’m thinking about throwing the blankets on the floor, just to tick you off, and then calling _you_ sensitive for getting mad!”

“That is SO petty! You really wonder why I don’t trust your excuses? I can’t believe you would even say something so—”

“I’ll scold you like a child and say, _Ohh, it’s just a blanket! It’s so easy to put right again! You’re not allowed to be angry; be disciplined! Control yourself, you fragile little crybaby! Learn to control your feelings! They’re too intense and you make everyone sooo uncomfortable!!”_

“Alex—!”

“Stop telling me to do something I was just about to do! You do it _all the time!_ God, you can’t even let me get my own breakfast on school days—I can’t remember coming downstairs and NOT seeing a bowl and spoon and cereal box on the table waiting for me. Just back off already! Leave me alone and let me do this stuff myself!!”

“Merlin’s beard, Alex! Stop being so melodramatic!” she admonished as I resumed walking toward my bedroom.

“I’m sorry!” I spat the words like a curse, forcing myself to slow my footsteps and move more gracefully. A task I accomplished easily, as long as someone wasn’t breathing down my neck. 

“Wow, nice apology! You sound _truly_ remorseful. Now, come down for breakfast when you’ve gotten dressed and calmed down; I’m sick of you spoiling meals with your childish outbursts.” 

I took a deep breath and willed the rage to dissipate. “Yes, Mum,” I grumbled. 

“Finally, a polite word from you,” she sighed as she descended the stairs. I ignored her.

 _“Now_ what’s wrong with her?” my father muttered from the kitchen. I hit my pillow and bit my lip to keep from shrieking—I knew I had to get everything out of my system before joining my family. We’d be arguing for hours unless I plodded downstairs appearing guilty and compliant.

A common occurrence.

I learned early in life that I could best eliminate friction by parroting back what people wanted to hear. And what people usually want to hear is the opposite of what I think. 

My parents rarely wish harm on anyone; and yet, like so many others, they fear that which they don’t understand. They crave order and predictability, and therefore need to control me to avoid confronting their biases. What a dreadful task: considering their impact on others! They likely believe, through a thick layer of double-standards, that they are showing me tough love by monitoring my every move, policing my anger, and always assuming the worst. 

I spent my formative years in a vicious cycle: doing the opposite of anything that felt natural, hoping I could actually change my personality if I tried hard enough, until I couldn’t handle the pressure anymore and the dam burst. My parents wondered why I threw raging temper tantrums over the smallest disappointments, not realizing that the slight had merely tipped me over the edge of a barely-constrained tidal wave.

When a child grows up believing their only power is in how successfully they can hide in plain sight, it’s only natural that the tiniest upset will throw them into a tizzy. Such an environment makes relaxation impossible...and the subsequent pent-up frustration will morph into fury.

I wanted to kill from a very young age, desperate to take out my anger on those who wounded me. As I never had a chance to safely seek retribution, my anger festered inside my stomach. I tried befriending the neighborhood children, hoping for a place to escape my family when I needed a breather, but it never took long for them to begin to fear me. They knew what I could do to them if given the chance. I remained trapped at home.

Realizing that I was terrible at blending in, and I had no refuge, I retreated into myself. Ignoring the world whenever possible saved energy—precious energy I had to expend projecting politeness and innocence, as is expected of a small child. Sometimes this presentation worked, but it was like trying to attach a mask to my face without magic; the material may stick for a few seconds, but it will inevitably fall. It fools no one. I’ve had to hold up my mask constantly, and the process drains me. 

I learned to carry that proverbial mask over my pale skin as if it were my life force. It may not have fooled my family completely, but it erected some type of barrier that allowed us to avoid _constant_ conflict. I cherished these moments of calm—quiet dinners, games of Wizard’s chess in the living room, and being tucked into bed with a kiss instead of a rundown of everything I had done wrong that day. My father has often been guilty of the latter, thinking I’ll be more receptive to “constructive criticism” while tired and therefore calm. But that calm never lasts—it switches to bloodthirsty rage the second he says, “We need to talk about something you did today,” in a gentle voice. He hasn’t learned that bedtime is not the time to tell a child how badly they messed up. As if I didn’t have a hard enough time falling asleep at night.

My father is quite a versatile man and has held various jobs throughout his life, often moving between different disciplines when he’s spent too much time in one area. My mother, on the other hand, is a paranoid woman who stopped working after giving birth to me. I nearly died after being born two months early, and my gross motor skills were slow to develop. Though I don’t blame my mother for having taken time off of work to care for me as a baby, I never understood why she insisted on staying home long after my body had caught up—especially since her former boss at American Witch Weekly begged her to return for years. Though a talented writer, she refused her former position, claiming that being a mother was her life’s work. She needed to be around to make sure I didn’t get hurt! I was so fragile and stubborn, with no concept of how helpless I really was! 

She didn’t even notice that no one else shared her view of me—by the time I was five, there were no signs that I had ever been delayed. 

No outward signs, anyway. Perhaps my traumatic early years damaged my psychological makeup. Or maybe the experience shifted my perspective away from the herd mentality and instilled an abnormally fervent drive to succeed, to overcompensate for years spent as a prisoner in my own body. My father has also felt pressed to accomplish all his goals—other than his black hair, ambition is the only trait I inherited from him. (And, well, maybe his temper, too.) Either way, my mother never got over seeing me as a delicate premature baby, and her maternal instincts have yet to settle down from overdrive. Sometimes I say that I don’t have a mother; I have a smother. My fighting back against her suffocation is not an act of misbehavior; it’s fighting for space to breathe. Unfortunately, my mother has never seen our dynamic that way. And she has often neglected my sister in the process.

My little sister Morgan is the perfect child. She takes after my mother in appearance and demeanor—the ample freckles, broad smile, red hair, and happy-go-lucky perky attitude when life is easy. When things go wrong, she clams up until the storm blows over. She hates talking about her feelings, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get angry. She’s too scared to make waves. I tried to copy her for years, hoping my parents would treat me better, but no one ever knew. Because it never ever worked. I abandoned this venture when I was about nine, and behaved as genuinely as I could without risking harm to myself—at home, at least. School was another story.

I always envied Morgan’s social success at school. She fell in with a group of peers within days of beginning kindergarten, as evidenced by their gallivanting about the playground while I sat on a hill by myself, tracing patterns in the dirt until recess ended. No one wanted to play with me. Morgan occasionally slipped me an apologetic glance, but I knew she was secretly relieved to be rid of me during the school day.

I’d had a difficult time acclimating when I’d started kindergarten three years prior, lashing out at kids left and right just because I could—my parents had made the mistake of telling me that they’d asked my teacher to be lenient, due to my behavioral problems. With the knowledge that someone would actually be on my side, I pushed my limits as far as possible, and received only minimal punishment. I’d never had special treatment before, and the power I could wield by playing the violent wounded animal was invigorating.

Hurting other kids was a wonderful release for my anger, and I relished it while feigning guilt over my _poor self-control_ after the fact. “I’m the only one who’s mean!” I’d once whined to my parents, pouting like a tortured soul and pretending I actually gave a shit about the brats I’d sent home in tears. I only halted my antics when first grade began, knowing that tolerance would not follow me there. I’d already been in the classroom environment for a year, received satisfactory grades, and had _definitely_ seen the error in my ways!

My parents were actually naïve enough to think I’d outgrown this _bully phase_ in a matter of months. I hadn’t outgrown anything; I was simply adept at locating my limits. And being reminded that my parents were done asking teachers for lenience was warning enough. I smirked privately as my instructors praised my hard work over the years—in between scolding me for snapping at other children when I simply couldn’t help myself. Sometimes, the pull to cause harm was simply too strong. I had to let loose once in a while. 

As satisfying as this venture was, it was dreadfully tiring. Especially since my parents had access to my teachers’ daily observations, being only a few miles away. Going to boarding school would change that.

When I turned ten in 1998, my parents told me that I would soon receive a welcome letter from Ilvermorny, the American Wizardry school, but an invitation came from Hogwarts instead. My mother was proud—she was probably the reason why. She was born in England, and moved to America to marry my father. (I’d sensed there had been more to that story, but she refused to elaborate when I was that young.) Morgan was too little to understand what was happening, so she just sat on the floor and watched the spectacle that began with the foreign owl flying in through the kitchen window. She was only seven, and didn’t know what Hogwarts was. Boarding school was boarding school—the place where big kids went away to learn magic. She was still afraid of the dark and didn’t want to think about education beyond our Muggle primary school.

I couldn’t wait to attend Hogwarts in the fall—a year earlier than expected. Apparently, a magical child needed to have turned eleven to begin their education until a few years ago, but the rule had changed to include children who would be eleven by the end of term. I considered that amendment a blessing, as it meant that I’d be able to get out of my parents’ house a year earlier.  

And I finally had something to look forward to.

My excitement over receiving my Hogwarts letter was, of course, ruined within seconds of reading it. My parents immediately launched into a lecture about how I’d be away from home without my family’s protection, so I had to make sure I didn’t misbehave! The authority figures at Hogwarts would be _much_ less forgiving than those at the Muggle school, and they could expel me if I ruffled the wrong person’s feathers! Compared to what I would experience if I acted out at Hogwarts, my parents and teachers didn’t mete out _real_ punishment. My life wasn’t _that_ bad. My parents reminded me that they pitied me because of how badly I was struggling socially, but the Hogwarts professors would never go easy on me if I antagonized the other students.

I never expected the Hogwarts professors to pity me, nor did I think my parents _ever_ went easy on me, but they needed to tell themselves otherwise to feel better about their parenting skills. Merlin, did they really think I was so thick as to not understand that boarding school was serious? 

My parents continued this conversation several times throughout the summer. Time slowed to the point that a day felt like a week, and only sped back up when my family boarded a plane to England in the last week of August. It was nearly impossible to contain my excitement. My parents reminded me that it was doubly important to act normally, now that we were in public—less because I was about to begin boarding school, and more because we were surrounded by Muggles and had to blend in. They kept scolding me for bouncing around in my seat before takeoff, and further scolding Morgan for copying me. My sister was highly entertained by my shenanigans.

I wasn’t too excited about seeing my grandmother, as her strained relationship with my mother affected everyone around them, but she was family.

Grandma Rosie spent most of her time reading books and knitting. She was a reclusive woman—she hated most people and only ever went outside to buy groceries; and even then, she bought as much as she could at once, in order to extend the number of days between trips. She probably would have bought a house elf to do all her chores if she could have afforded it. Because of this, no one was surprised that she refused to accompany us to Diagon Alley to purchase my school supplies. She was too tired, Diagon Alley was too crowded, and she had a scarf to finish. (She put all of this in a letter before we’d even boarded the plane, to avoid having the conversation in person. None of us were surprised.) 

We took a taxi to the end of her block, since the neighborhood was invisible to Muggles, and silently walked down the street toward her house. She opened the door with a restrained smile—no hugs or welcoming words. She was too proud and grouchy for that.

“How was your flight?” she asked us as we traipsed in through the front door, our suitcases trailing behind.

“Uneventful,” my father replied. He forced a smile, pretending not to notice the tension in the air. It was impossible not to feel uncomfortable around Grandma Rosie, but we still tried.

“I’m amazed none of those blasted Muggles gave you grief,” she drawled. “Meddlesome imbeciles they are, always poking their noses where they don’t belong, and making us scurry around like rats in the gutter. Their money is so confusing, and their clothing is just _silly._ It’s not _practical._ I don’t envy your having to wear these boring, restrictive clothes just to travel with them.” She ran a critical eye over our attire and scoffed.

“Well, we didn’t run into any problems,” my mother interjected, attempting to hide the quiver in her voice. “I don’t see any reason to complain about th—”

“They really should build some airports that Muggles can’t see!” she continued, as if her daughter hadn’t even spoken. “If Muggles are so delicate that they can’t handle people who are more gifted than they, they should at least allow our kind to travel openly. Traveling is stressful enough without having to make sure we’re concealing ourselves adequately!”

“Rosie, we’re not advocating magical supremacy. Could you please not talk like that?” my father asked. “We don’t want the girls to think that we’re better than anyone just because we’re magical. Muggles can’t help being Muggles. If we separate our communities completely, we’ll be in danger of reinstating the ban on Wizard/Muggle friendships and marriages and—” 

“Oh, come off it, Shawn! We shield our _schools_ from the Muggle world! I’m merely suggesting we do that with airports as well! I’m not saying we should _kill_ them or anything; I just don’t like the way we have to _hide_ around them! It’s not fair. Your flight would probably have been so much less stressful if no Muggles had been on the plane, and you could have actually dressed the way we normally do. Either we fly separately, or we could just bloody Obliviate them, like we do if they see magic at King’s Cross. They won’t get hurt. They wouldn’t even know what hit them.”

Morgan and I stared at each other in disbelief as our grandmother ranted. We’d already been taught that Muggles were merely different, but not inferior. Grandma Rosie had spouted off about Muggles a handful of times throughout our lives—but then again, she had something nasty to say about anyone and everyone. We weren’t sure if she actually hated Muggles, or simply used their lack of magic as an excuse to complain about them, since she felt better about herself when she insulted others. 

My parents finally managed to subdue Grandma Rosie enough that she stopped insulting Muggles, and swerved the subject matter to our upcoming shopping trip. We assured her that we had enough money, we wouldn’t buy too many things we didn’t need, and we wouldn’t buy a misbehaving owl. Yes, we would ask for help if we couldn’t find a particular item; no, we wouldn’t start a fight with a shopkeeper if a textbook was too expensive. 

Dinner was a tense event, as it always was in that house, but I would never tell my parents that I got a sick thrill from watching them interact with Grandma Rosie—when we were in her home, all of my transgressions fell by the wayside. I could actually pretend I was a normal child. Morgan was suddenly no better than I. We were just two wide-eyed little girls, watching our parents attempt to maintain calm around our unstable grandmother. I basked in my secret relief and hid my stubborn smirk until we all went to bed. 

*   *   * 

Sleep didn’t come easily that night, but excitement overrode exhaustion the next morning. Morgan looked at me uncertainly as I danced around the bedroom while dressing, not knowing how to react to my unusually chipper mood, and I all but dove into the fireplace after my parents explained how to use Floo powder. 

I was in awe of Diagon Alley. The shops were beautiful, the narrow streets wound around the buildings like cobblestone snakes, and the excitement was infectious. The hot summer air didn’t even feel oppressive anymore, drowned out by my fiery anticipation. 

Everyone around me appeared cheerful. No one was appraising me with a judgmental scowl and telling me to bugger off. I was a nobody—a new student with her parents, just like everyone else. My tumultuous history was invisible here. I hoped it would remain so at Hogwarts. 

At the thought of Hogwarts, my face split into an enormous grin. All of my problems suddenly dimmed in importance. Once September began, none of my domestic concerns would matter anymore. I would no longer trudge home from a Muggle school every afternoon, and immediately be rushed by my overprotective mother asking how my day went and grabbing my jacket from my shoulders before I even had a chance to hang it up myself. 

It was here in Diagon Alley where I would prepare to begin a fresh start. Hogwarts was real now. Spending the bulk of my time away from home wasn’t some far-off dream anymore; it was mere days away. Finally. 

I realized that if I were this excited to simply exist in such an enchanting place like Diagon Alley, I would surely feel even better at Hogwarts. The hope for my future that suddenly welled inside me, a stark contrast to my usual exhaustion and misery, almost brought me to tears. I felt lighter on my feet and full of energy. I could barely contain myself. I couldn’t wait to stride through the halls of my new school, strutting around in my robes and carrying my textbooks.

But before doing that, I needed to collect my school supplies. And the list was quite long.

I was initially excited at the prospect of buying a wand, but this turned out to be an annoyingly lengthy process. Nothing fit me right. My parents started showing signs of impatience after a while—my mother even turned away as she pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head—but it actually was quite fun watching stacks of thin boxes topple to the ground as I was passed wand after wand after wand. Just when I thought Mr. Ollivander couldn’t possibly get any more impatient with me, I waved a 12¾-inch maple wand with a dragon heartstring core that glowed silver as soon as I picked it up. Warmth breezed through me as I held the instrument, which quickly became an extension of my right arm. My father rushed forward and slammed the requisite Galleons into Ollivander’s hand. Ignoring my parents’ stir-craziness, I beamed as I carefully slipped my new treasure into an inside pocket of my robe.

“Are we getting my books now?” I asked my father.

“We are. You see the sign that says Flourish and Blotts?” 

I followed his finger and located the sign. “Is that the book store?”

“Yes, it is. It will likely be very crowded, so make sure you watch where you’re going.”

“Dad, I’m not going to go barging in like an angry Hippogriff! I _know_ I need to look where I’m going. I’m not stupid. Can’t you trust my judgment just _once?_ ”

“Alex! Stop yelling!” my mother scolded. “We’re in public. Lower your voice! Do you want to make a scene?” 

I cringed and stared at my mother in disbelief. I had maybe raised my voice one decibel, but the sound certainly hadn’t qualified as yelling. What did she expect me to do, whisper unless given permission to speak any louder? It wasn’t my fault she had such über-sensitive ears!

“Your new classmates are all around us,” she continued in a hoity-toity tone. “They can probably hear you, since you started shouting. Do you want them to remember you as the rude little girl who kept talking back to her father in Diagon Alley? You think that will make it easier to integrate with your classmates?”

I burst into tears. 

“Oh, knock it off!” my father scolded. “Stop being such a baby! ‘Watch where you’re going’ is just a normal thing for a parent to say to a kid!”

I had a fairly thick skin for a ten-year-old, but my parents were right this one time: I _was_ feeling fragile. And I had every right to be. Their accosting me with more criticism than normal over the summer had torn down my scant emotional defenses, and this public verbal beating was the last straw. I couldn’t hold it together anymore. My nerves were frayed. 

The mask crashed to the ground and shattered.

I was suddenly doubled over, sobbing like an infant in the middle of crowded Diagon Alley. My chest heaved and shook as I attempted to muffle the sound, since I _knew_ we were in public and did not want to make a scene. I was not the oblivious brat my parents needed to believe I was, and I was terrified that they would never let me prove that to them. 

“Oh, for the love of Merlin...” my mother groaned, while she grabbed my arm and violently pulled me out of the crowd and into a quieter area. Morgan and my father followed at a short distance. 

“You have _got_ to _stop_ this,” she warned, pointing her finger in my face, “or we will bring you back to Grandma Rosie’s house and do the rest of your shopping for you. Is that what you want? Do you want to be the only Hogwarts student who is so badly behaved, she can’t even be trusted to accompany her family to buy her school supplies?” 

I looked down at the ground so my mother couldn’t see my icy glare. _Do you want to be the only mother who can’t treat her daughter properly, so you have to resort to threats and insults to shut her up?_

“This is nothing to cry about,” my father reproached as he and Morgan came closer.

I looked up to see that my family had formed a semi-circle around me—as if being backed up against a wall while my mother pointed her finger in my face wasn’t insulting enough. I imagined hexing the lot of them just for some breathing room, but I’d already learned years ago that personal space was not something I could be granted without permission. Especially when angry. As always, I had to diffuse the fight myself.

“WHY DIDN’T—” I took a deep breath and lowered my voice. “Why didn’t you tell _Morgan_ to watch where _she_ was going?” I growled softly. “If you trust a seven-year-old to understand something so obvious, why not a ten-year-old?”

“Alex, you don’t always pay attention—”

“You don’t give me a chance to show you that I _can_ pay attention! You just assume I can’t do anything right! You never let me breathe! _Look_ at all of you,” I gestured to their positions, “hovering around me like this! I can’t BREATHE! STEP _BACK!”_

“We’re not  _that_ close,” Morgan remarked softly. “You _are_ being dramatic. Could you stop? You’re scaring me.”

“UGH!!” I shouted, and pushed through the space between my parents. My father grabbed my hand as I was walking away, so forcefully that I shrieked. If I hadn’t stopped walking, I likely would have sprained something.

“OW! What are you DOING?! Get OFF me!!”

“Don’t you dare run away. Do you want to get kidnapped?”

“Dad, I’m not running away! I’m just trying to breathe! _Please!!”_ I was suddenly lightheaded, my breath coming in short, heavy gasps. 

“All right, that’s it. We’re taking you back to Grandma Rosie’s.”

“NO! NO! I need to be here! I need to do this! Please! Gimme a chance!!” 

“Alex, we’ve already given you—”

“Shawn, let go of her.” My mother’s voice was so quiet, it startled me. 

“What?” He dropped my hand and turned around to face his wife. I rubbed my wrist and shrank back against a nearby wall. 

“Let’s—she should stay here. She should experience this. This is a milestone.” 

“Renee, _you_ were the one who just threatened to take her home because she was throwing a tantrum in public, yet again! Do you want her to think she can act however she wants with impunity? If we’re not consistent with her, she’ll never learn! She’ll think that crying like a baby will get her out of anything! She needs to learn to behave!”

“Shawn—”

“I’m fed up with her, Renee! Everything we say offends her! She cannot act this way! She’s not a toddler anymore; she’s TEN! She’s about to leave home for almost a _year!_ Can she even handle it? Should we hold her back for a year and hope she can finally mature enough that we can actually _trust_ her to be away from our care?” 

“NOOO!!!!” The tears had come back in full force and I resumed hyperventilating. I couldn’t be deprived of this experience, and I certainly couldn’t be stuck at home for another year. I had been held back enough.

My father wasn’t done. 

“Will she get thrown out of Hogwarts? Will Dumbledore expel her because she’s too disruptive in the classroom? She can’t even handle one shopping trip to Diagon Alley without mouthing off like a little bitch!” 

“Look at her,” my mother said softly, gesturing to my trembling form. “She gets the message.” She turned to me and bent down until she was eye-level with me. “You’re going to behave now, right?” she encouraged. She was almost begging.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sorry for anything I’d done; only for the consequence. As always. 

My father nodded curtly, grimacing at the abject terror in my eyes. My mother slipped her hand into mine as we walked to Flourish and Blotts, but refused to look at me. Morgan padded along next to us, also averting her eyes. I wondered what she was thinking, gingerly tiptoeing down the street and caving into herself. I knew she feared me when I flew into one of my rages, but sometimes she seemed to feel bad for me after I’d calmed down. She’d never admit it out loud, though. She was the passive child. The good child. The child all the parents praised for her manners and adorable smile. The child all the parents cooed over as her long, red hair swayed when she skipped around the house in a new set of robes.

No one ever called me sweet. No one ever praised my parents for anything I had done, outside of academics. I was the outlier—the oddball around whom no one knew how to act. My parents and their friends always eyed me suspiciously, like a caged animal who would bite and claw viciously after one false move, simply because I was different. A friendly, sociable, well-to-do family like mine, who could blend in anywhere, was not equipped to handle a fiercely independent introvert such as myself. My parents used up so much of their daily energy hawkishly scrutinizing me that they viewed any of Morgan’s minor transgressions with indifference. 

My sister was virtually untouchable. Nothing she did was a big deal. None of her mistakes were jarringly memorable, like mine. Though occasionally running into a scuffle with other kids, she was basically perfect. Our parents’ claim to despise playing favorites was utter bullshit. By the time I hit eight or nine, I’d begun to wonder if I was even a lovable person to begin with.

I should say that my parents never actively set out to cause me harm. They wouldn’t hurt a fly. In their relentless discipline, I think my parents were simply doing what they thought they were supposed to do, because they never thought to take me seriously. Since my personality baffled my parents, they assumed I was just troubled. Aloof. Maybe even mentally ill. As good as their intentions may have been, they were biased enough that they would rather abuse me than perform an ounce of the self-analysis they expected of me every day.

I tried to make sense of this as we walked to Flourish and Blotts. I couldn’t articulate the intricacies of our family dynamic at such a young age, but I subconsciously understood it in dribs and drabs. These fragments of knowledge floated through my mind as I gripped my mother’s hand.

Though my mother’s words often cut me to the core, there were moments when I practically worshipped her. She was the only person on Earth who could rein in my father’s temper. Whenever he crossed a line, she was there to silently guide him back. She was his rock. 

I had no rock. 

I had no one to lean on when I needed to break down; and as a result, I clung desperately to books and creativity as an escape. That was part of the reason why I nearly panicked at the threat of being deprived of that Diagon Alley shopping trip—I needed to bask in my first glimpse of freedom from my family’s clutches. I needed to see the stores, the robes, the books, the wands, all the other first-year students out and about...it all made Hogwarts more real to me.

And I couldn’t afford to stand out from my classmates by not having seen Diagon Alley. I could almost hear the barrage of questions— _Why didn’t you go? Were you sick? Why didn’t your parents think you could handle it? Is something wrong with you? Do you have a bad temper? Will you hurt me?_

I would have to think of lie upon lie to cover for myself if I were forced to leave this wonderful place that all the other kids got to experience. Because of this, I was suddenly less excited for my schooling and more focused on policing myself in response to my parents' hawkishness. What fun.

Walking into Flourish and Blotts offered a brief respite. Despite the colossal amount of reading material, the bookstore was surprisingly cozy—it felt smaller than it really was. I entertained a fantasy of buying the space and living there by myself, surrounded by endless knowledge with no one to bother me.

“What are you smiling about?” my mother asked, happy to see me in a good mood. 

“I was just thinking that I want this place as my bedroom.”

“Of course you do!” she chuckled. “I’ll tell you what: when we’re done collecting your textbooks, you can pick one other book you want and I’ll buy it for you.” She clearly still felt bad about the altercation a few minutes earlier, but didn’t want to flat-out apologize for making me cry. Typical.

My grin widened at the prospect of a book of my choosing, and I was practically salivating as we maneuvered around the crowds to gather my textbooks.  _Don’t mess this up, Alex. Don’t mess this up._

“All right, do you see anything else you like?” my mother asked before we walked up to the counter. 

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a sign that read _The Dark Arts._

My mother’s smile vanished. “We don’t associate with the Dark Arts. Those are books that evil people like to read.”

“But it looks interesting.”

“Alex, that’s what _bad_ wizards practice! Thieves! Murderers! Why on  _Earth_ would you want to read about that?!”

“I—I was just curious. And you said any book—” 

“I didn’t expect you to look _there—”_

“But why would they sell Dark Arts books if we’re not supposed to read them?”

My mother sighed in exasperation. “Just—just pick a book somewhere else, please. Anything that’s _not_ the Dark Arts.” 

“But if it’s bad and we’re not supposed to—”

“This is a bookstore. They sell books that they know people will buy. Obviously, there are enough... _supporters_ of the Dark Arts that Flourish and Blotts can make money selling those books. I don’t control what is sold here.” 

I sighed, deflated once more. After wandering around the shelves for a few minutes while my family waited in line to pay, I picked up a copy of the second-year spellbook and began leafing through it. I had a funny feeling that I might need it later. 

“This one!” I announced. 

My mother’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a textbook—”

“A textbook for second-years,” my father cut in. “Why would you want that? You’ll get it next summer.”

“But I’m really curious. You said _any_ book, and—”

“Alex, you have seven textbooks for classes you _are_ taking!” my mother reminded me. “Don’t you think you’re biting off more than you can chew?”

My father looked thoughtful before responding, “What’s the worst that could happen?” 

“I don’t want her getting ahead of herself. She’s just starting at Hogwarts! I don’t want her to be overwhelmed—” 

“I—I just wanted to read it—” 

“Renee, you know she’s brilliant. Maybe she’ll surprise us. The worst that will happen is she finds the spells too difficult and saves the book for next year.” He turned to me. “You can get this. Just promise us that you won’t attempt the spells without guidance, if you do happen to reach that point.” 

I beamed.

“She’s a Ravenclaw, like you,” my father muttered with a smirk, nudging my mother.

“Probably,” she chuckled.

I smiled as I pictured myself in Ravenclaw robes. That would definitely make my mother proud. Perhaps my getting into her House would encourage her to treat me better, since we’d actually have something to bond over. I suddenly couldn’t wait for my Sorting.

I was barely aware of my movements as we gathered the rest of my school supplies. I still wanted to lash out at my family for destroying my first good mood in weeks—and in public, no less—but successfully completing this shopping trip was more important. With a deep, shaking breath, I shut down all emotion and went on autopilot. I had to remain calm until we left Diagon Alley. I also reminded myself that burying my negative emotions would be good practice for any altercations I may encounter at Hogwarts. More than just studying magic, I knew that I needed to prove to my parents (and myself) that I was capable of functioning in society without their overbearing presence. 

Buying me a pet was the last item on the list. I was more inclined to buy a small snake than an owl, but figured that wouldn’t put me in a terribly positive light; I also knew that I would need to send mail. I settled with a friendly dark brown and white owl who cooed happily when I reached through her cage to pet her. I named her Sonia, after my old imaginary friend, and carried her cage carefully as we made our way back to my grandmother’s house. 

I immediately grabbed my new schoolbooks and retreated to the room I was sharing with Morgan. My heart raced in anticipation as I flopped onto my bed and opened the one on top of the pile: The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 _._ The smell of new parchment swirled inside my nose and my shoulders slumped in relaxation for the first time that day. My grin returned as I carefully opened the book and began reading excitedly. I felt better and better as I began devouring the information and practicing the wand movements with my right hand. 

I was two chapters in when Morgan burst through the door, jolting me back to reality. I jumped.

“Dinner’s ready!” she called out cheerfully, but her smile quickly dimmed when she saw the look on my face.

I was furious. I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t had nearly enough alone time to emotionally prepare myself to rejoin my relatives. I wanted to hit something. 

“Couldn’t you knock?” I retorted. Since I couldn’t actually get up and hit something, a snide comment was the safest release of my anger. 

“We’re sharing this room, Alex; it doesn’t belong to you! That’s not fair.” 

“You startled me. A knock won’t kill you. You know, that whole _po-lite-ness_ thing Mum and Dad are always shoving down our throats like cough potions....!”

“Why is it so hard for you to be nice?!” Morgan whined. She looked dumbfounded that I would compare politeness to foul-tasting medicine, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help that parroting back _please_ and _thank you_ like a mindless drone filled me with rage. Why should I have to be nice, anyway, when the world wasn’t nice to me? Where was my reward? What was in it for me? Nothing, as far as I could tell.

“Why can’t you just knock?” I shot back with an eerily quiet tone that didn’t match the fire in my eyes. 

Our mother suddenly appeared behind Morgan. 

“Alex, what are you doing _this_ time?” she groaned.

“Oh, that’s really nice, Mum. You just walk into a conversation and automatically assume that I did something wrong?!”

“Stop being so melodramatic! I just heard your sister asking you to be nice! What do you expect me to think?!”

“Oh, I dunno...maybe that she did something that made me mad and I just...got mad? And I actually had a good reason?”

“What did she do that was so horrible?”

“I was in the middle of reading one of my new textbooks and she just barged in. Really loudly. She startled me. I only asked her to knock! You know...being _polite?”_ I dragged out that last word for emphasis. 

“Oh, that’s funny, Alex. YOU getting angry with someone else for not being polite? You are the rudest child I have ever encountered. None of us can understand why you’re so delicate and obnoxious. The most innocuous things set you off! Might we be a bit hypocritical?”

She sounded amused. I swear to Merlin she was antagonizing me on purpose, just to see what I would do. 

_I’ll show you what I can do._

I stood up, marched over to the doorway, and punched my mother in the stomach. She yelped—probably more in horror than in physical pain. I was, sadly, not yet strong enough to inflict any damage on an adult.

“YOU’RE DOING THAT ON PURPOSE! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” I bellowed. “WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS SHOVING THIS STUPID _‘BE NICE! BE NICE!’_ NONSENSE DOWN MY THROAT, BUT YOU _ENJOY_ PROVOKING ME? LIKE I’M NOT MISERABLE ENOUGH AS IT IS!!” 

“You will NOT take that tone with me again, young lady!” she yelled back, and slapped me across the face.

My father had appeared by this time, ready to defend his precious wife and younger daughter from his belligerent older one.

“No dinner!” he scolded.

“THAT’S NOT FAIR!” I screamed. “You’re all ganging up on me! AGAIN!”

“Telling you to stop misbehaving is not the same as ganging up on you! Stop playing the victim! No dinner tonight.” 

He led Morgan and my mother away from the room, and slammed the door on me. I sank to the floor and burst into tears for the second time that day. And since we were no longer in public, I didn’t have to hold back. A shrill shriek emitted from the back of my throat, that didn’t even sound like me—it sounded like an animal being brutally stabbed to death.

Seconds later, my father violently threw the door open and scoffed loudly in disgust. “Why must you always be so overly emotional? You scared us all half to death! I thought you were hurt!”

“SINCE WHEN DO YOU ACTUALLY GIVE A DAMN ABOUT ME!” I sobbed. He would probably punish me again for swearing, but I didn’t care. “I COULD THROW MYSELF OUT THE WINDOW RIGHT NOW AND YOU’D ALL BE GLAD I WAS DEAD!”

“You KNOW that’s not true, Alex!! Stop this victim talk! Stop wallowing in self-pity! You think we _want_ to discipline you?! You think we enjoy this?!”

“I _KNOW_ YOU DO! I CAN SEE IT IN YOUR EYES! ESPECIALLY MUM!”

My father winced and took a step back. His jaw set. “You can’t scream like that, in public or otherwise. It’s not acceptable,” he scolded quietly. 

“WHEN IS _ANYTHING_ I DO ACCEPTABLE?? WHY CAN’T I JUST LET IT OUT? WHY CAN’T I JUST GET IT OUT OF MY SYSTEM? I CAN’T KEEP IT IN ANYMORE!!!!” 

“You can’t keep scaring us half to death, Alexandra!! Just...can’t you just count to ten and take some deep breaths?!”

I folded over onto myself and emitted a gutteral cry even worse than the first one. My father slammed the door on me mid-shriek and stomped down the stairs, leaving me alone in the bedroom once more. 

I screamed and screamed and screamed until I had no voice left.

When I finally lifted my head up, the carpet’s texture was etched into my suddenly-lined forehead. I shuddered at my appearance in the mirror—red face, puffy eyes, tear-stained cheeks—before collapsing onto my bed. I idly traced the front cover of the textbook I had been studying moments earlier as I considered trying to read some more, but my brain was too fuzzy. And it seemed appropriate that my parents were withholding dinner this night—I had no appetite to speak of. 

*   *   * 

I awoke the next morning with zero energy. I lay perfectly still, staring blankly at the ceiling for around half an hour before I groggily pulled myself into a sitting position. My throat was raw, and I winced when I swallowed. My eyes were still so puffy, I couldn’t open them all the way. I didn’t even want to see my reflection.

I pondered how I should begin my day. _Should I wait here until someone comes in to fetch me? Should I go downstairs for breakfast?_ Like the night before, I wasn’t that hungry. I had a habit of forgoing food when I was stressed. 

I reminded myself that I would be leaving for Hogwarts in four days. Compared to ten and a half years with my family, it was nothing. I could surely handle it. I had no other choice.

Morgan wasn’t in the room. Her bed appeared slept in, and then made up awkwardly by a seven-year-old. 

I decided to wait for my family to show interest in interacting with me. Having no clue when that would be, I reached down and picked up a different textbook from the one I’d read the day before—I didn’t want to touch The Standard Book of Spells right now, given what had happened after I’d begun reading it. I decided to leave that book for last until my anger from the previous day had dulled some more. 

_Knock knock._

“Who is it?” I croaked from my sore throat as my stomach clenched in anticipation. 

“It’s Mum. Are you hungry?” 

“Um...”

The door opened.

“How’d you sleep?” my mother asked tentatively. 

“Fine.” 

“Are you hungry?”

“No, I just...I just feel like reading right now.”

“Honey, it’s ten o’clock. You haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Aren’t you lightheaded at all?” 

“I was more lightheaded last night, honestly. From all the screaming and crying.”

My mother sighed and gingerly sat down at the foot of the bed. “I don’t enjoy scolding you, Alex. Neither does Dad.” 

Silence. 

“We’re concerned about you, sweetie. We want you to do well at Hogwarts. Since you’ve never been away from us for so long—”

“I’ll be _fine_ , Mum. I’m not a fragile baby. I swear I can handle it. Just give me a chance.”

“I’m just worried that—”

“Mum, you guys have been scolding me all summer! I get the point!”

“Alex, stop interrupting me.” 

I bit my tongue so hard, I tasted blood. My mother cringed as she saw my face twitch from the pain, but I did not respond.

_Get this damn lecture over with. You’re lucky I don’t have the energy to explode again or I might get violent. That one punch was nothing._

She took a deep breath and slightly raised her hands off her lap as if preparing to fend off an attack. “I don’t want to argue with you,” she continued. “I don’t want to make you angry. I—we just worry. We’re concerned that if you act out at Hogwarts, you’ll get a bad reputation; and bad reputations are much easier to get than good ones.” 

I snarled. _Noooo, you think?!_  

“We love how smart you are—and that you’ll almost certainly be a Ravenclaw—but some teachers may be unfair; and regardless of how dilligently you study, they could give you poor marks simply because they dislike you.” 

_Right. Like I’ve NEVER been punished for other people’s prejudices before. ESPECIALLY not yours. Sorry, I forgot: you’re a bloody saint and everything is my fault. Please carry on. I couldn’t POSSIBLY do this without you._

I zoned out as she finished saying the same things she’d been saying all summer, but staring pointedly at her to make her think I was still paying attention. 

“Are you okay?” she asked once she finally finished rambling. 

I nodded. 

“Grandma Rosie made scrambled eggs and bacon a few hours ago. They’re probably cold by now, but we can cast a warming spell—she made enough for you. I hope you’ll be hungry soon.” 

“I probably will. I just need some time alone first.”

“All right. Please try to relax. This is a very special time for you. I don’t want any more arguments.” 

I fought the urge to punch her again as she stroked my hair before creeping out of the bedroom. 

*   *   * 

I spent the remainder of the week studying. I wanted—no, _needed_ to get a head start. The more I learned, the more I wanted to learn. I was insatiable. I wasn’t even thinking about getting good marks; I just wanted to learn. Somehow, even at such a young age, I knew that knowledge would be my way out. I knew that learning would empower me and grow my confidence faster, so I would be able to gain independence faster.

By the end of the week, I had read through a third of all of my textbooks. The task was overwhelming at first, and I had a brief moment of terror when I worried that my mother had been right and I really _was_ biting off more than I could chew, but I reminded myself that I wouldn’t be tested as soon as I got to Hogwarts; I’d be going over all the material at a much slower pace, and with supervised instruction. I retrieved an inkbottle and feather quill from my cauldron and notated all the areas of study that confused me, along with questions I planned to ask the professors during those lessons. I also wondered if any other students began studying before the start of term—more likely the Ravenclaws, whom I would surely join on September 1. 

I couldn’t wait.


	3. Tom | 1994

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered calling this chapter “Draco Malfoy and the Halloween Mask That Ruined His Reputation.” Just for shits and giggles. Enjoy!

Trust me  
I’ll be there when you need me  
You’ll be safe here  
When you finally trust me  
Finally believe in me  
I will let you down 

—Three Days Grace ~ “Let You Down”

 

We broke Rodolphus out of Azkaban two weeks later. Since we already knew the lay of the land, we brought an extra broomstick to grab his brother Rabastan and comrade Barty Crouch Jr. We were in and out in under ten minutes.

And then Malfoy Manor suddenly felt very crowded. 

None of us were sure what to do for a while—yes, the Lestranges were extremely wealthy, but they were also escaped convicts. They needed time to recover from their captivity. And even with Lucius having retrieved the prisoners’ wands from the Ministry, they couldn’t just go out and purchase a home like ordinary citizens.

I stayed away from the unstable bunch while they regained their strength. 

Over the next several weeks, I began formulating plans for rebuilding my forces and surpassing my scope of power before Harry Potter had nearly killed me. The little brat. I was so happy he was finally dead. Dumbledore, on the other hand—no. That wasn’t a priority at the moment. I’d deal with my former professor later.

Having four escapees in a majestic fortress like Malfoy Manor was quite awkward, but I was glad that at least Draco was back at Hogwarts. He was quite a mess after coming home for Christmas and seeing the aunt and uncle he’d never met, along with two complete strangers...none of whom were mentally sound. Draco seemed torn between wanting to get to know his aunt and uncle, and wanting to run full-speed in the opposite direction because of how strangely they behaved. His parents were able to explain what had happened well enough—and obviously swore him to secrecy—but decided to keep their impressionable son away from the lively group until they were presentable. The knowledge that Draco wouldn’t return until the end of June took the pressure off of them to “shape up” faster.

It took a few months, but the charismatic quartet mostly came back to themselves. There would always be something missing from their spritely youth, but that was to be expected after a decade of incarceration. The most important thing was that they were still capable Death Eaters.

And we knew Barty Crouch Jr. was feeling better when he began playing pranks on everyone.

Lucius found what he believed to be a tap-dancing Dobby in his bedroom, only to find that Junior had transfigured his Azkaban prison suit to look like the elf. It resumed its original form and then disintegrated upon being blasted by Malfoy’s angry Cruciatus curse.

“CROUCH!!!” he bellowed. “You’re CLEARLY feeling better if you’re up to your old histrionics! I KNOW that was you!”

A spat of deranged, childlike laughter sounded from down the hall. I was just finishing my lunch when I heard the commotion, and went upstairs to investigate. 

“You helped me get rid of that ratty old thing,” Crouch called back happily. “I cannot thank you enough!”

Lucius rolled his eyes and pretended to be furious instead of mildly amused. (The real Dobby was nowhere to be seen during this altercation. The elf was smarter than Lucius gave him credit for.) Once we were far enough away from Barty, Lucius told me what had happened. 

“Well, at least we know he’s recovering,” I remarked. “The sooner the better.”

Lucius mumbled some form of agreement and stormed off down the hall to confront the trickster.

A week after the tap-dancing incident, Narcissa was putting on her coat to go outside when a dinnerplate-sized hairy spider flew out of nowhere and landed on her face. And it would not be moved. Her shrill shriek followed her back into the foyer as she tore at her cheeks, completely ruining her makeup. I smirked as I watched this spectacle, feeling no inclination to intervene. After a moment, the spider fell to the floor and turned back into one of Narcissa’s shawls, which she’d declared missing a few days prior. And then came the sound of Junior’s giggling from the parlor. 

“That childish little blighter!” she growled. After fixing her makeup with an unnecessarily violent twitch of her wand, Narcissa flew into the parlor to commence a screaming match with the offender.

Though psychotic enough to play tricks on high-ranking Death Eaters, Junior was smart enough to go easy on me—all he did was bewitch the pages of _The Daily Prophet_ to turn backwards or forwards when I wasn’t done reading a particular article. I chuckled to myself when I heard his thoughts on the matter as he stood outside my room.

“Very funny, Crouch,” I drawled as I opened the door. “But it’s time to stop with the practical jokes.” I lowered my voice. “At least with me.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” he mumbled, tongue flickering like a snake’s, before he shuffled away. 

Several other such incidents transpired over the course of the next few weeks before Junior finally tired of toying with everyone’s heads. The only person he didn’t prank regularly was Margo—he once charmed a book to jerk out of her hands and twirl in the air, but the girl didn’t even crack a smile. Realizing that his antics would elicit no reaction, good or bad, from the subdued nine-year-old, he ignored her from then on.

Margo barely spoke. Withdrawn as ever, she seemed less concerned with being a child and more concerned with figuring out how to best navigate her turbulent surroundings. 

She had no interest in conversation with Crouch or the Lestranges. Though profoundly impacted by her parents’ deaths—which she suddenly refused to discuss any further—she was slowly growing into a practical, productive young lady. She had poise, restraint, and exceptional manners. In other words, she was the complete antithesis of Draco. Hence her lack of affection for the older boy. 

Though uncommonly well-behaved for her age, the child was a slow burner—if something bothered her, she would attempt to work through the problem on her own. If she failed, she’d let the issue build and build inside her until one tiny slight set her off. And then she’d explode. That was probably the other reason Crouch avoided her. Though the most common theme behind her rage was Draco and his father’s enabling, Crouch still didn’t want to get on the girl’s bad side. Given the way she shouted at Lucius for his fear of bruising his son’s fragile ego, I could only imagine what would happen if, one day, Margo had a child who behaved like Draco. _That_ would be quite a spectacle. 

Margo was not afraid of standing up to her cousin. Having lost her parents so young, she lacked the typical fearfulness of authority and desire to please that most young children possessed. On the rare occasion that Margo blew up, her screaming matches with Lucius could be heard all over the house. The sound of two stubborn, headstrong people butting heads so dramatically was unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. Narcissa usually had to split them up and send them to opposite sides of the house until they’d both calmed down. They would avoid each other for a day or two after the fact, and then never mention the row again. Until the next one.

I wondered what kind of a Death Eater Margo would be. The role was normally reserved for males, but this child seemed the most level-headed person in the house. And she _was_ a Malfoy. I would certainly approach her about it when she was of age. The girl had the potential to be as ferocious as Bellatrix. 

I thought it fascinating that a child as young as Margo possessed more moxie than some adults. But then again, I also had never truly felt like a child, after everything I’d endured by the time I was Margo’s age. I found myself respecting her more than her older relatives; though I would never share this fact with them unless a situation called for such intense humiliation. 

Being as grounded as she was, I wondered what Margo would have done if she’d been in Ginny Weasley’s shoes, presented with a diary that wrote back to her and told her everything she wanted to hear. She would probably have thrown it in the fireplace out of sheer annoyance, thinking the object an insult to her intelligence. How unlike Ginny, who once wrote, “No one’s ever understood me like you, Tom....I’m so glad I’ve got this diary to confide in...It’s like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket....”

 _Really, you stupid girl? A friend in your pocket? You deserved to die, you gullible idiot._  

Oh, and then there had been my personal favorite: “There was another attack today and I don’t know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I’m going mad....I think I’m the one attacking everyone, Tom!” 

Clearly, deductive reasoning had not been Ginny’s strong suit. I suppose that’s what happens when you have wishy-washy parents who teach you to see the good in everyone, as if the world is actually a fair and wonderful place. 

 _Sorry, Weasley. It doesn’t work like that. Off you go into the Chamber to decompose with your worthless little friends._

Ginny and her comrades weren’t the only ones who deserved to decompose. While the Lestranges and Crouch Jr. were recovering, I began the long and arduous process of locating all of my old followers, many of whom I expected to have renounced their loyalty to me. They would have to die as punishment. I would kill them in front of all the others to make sure I got my message across.

Lucius set up one of his large rooms next to the library to serve as a meeting place once I’d located everyone. It would be in this room where I would discover everyone’s true loyalties—by force, if necessary. Once the meeting room was prepared adequately, I summoned everyone and took stock of who had actually shown up.

My followers had numbered over thirty before I’d disappeared. I’d hoped to see the same number of masked, hooded figures standing before me after Lucius temporarily lifted his anti-Apparition wards and I summoned them all. Instead, there were exactly ten. I was furious. 

The Carrow twins were the first Death Eaters to arrive, followed by Snape, Rowle, and Greyback. Next came Yaxley, Crabbe, Goyle, and finally Mulciber Junior and Scabior. The Carrows took great pride in making themselves known among our clan, while most others chose to remain anonymous. Only I knew who all the Death Eaters were. I preferred that they not know the identities of their comrades, in case they were captured and tortured for information, but I didn’t see that happening right now; my first task was to rebuild. And to show my loyal followers what would happen if they stepped out of line.

For the loyal ones who had returned, their first assignment was to scout out new recruits and search for the traitors. Crouch and the Lestranges were able to join them on these daily searches as they regained their strength, helping us speed up the process of weeding out the weak links. Any traitors found were tortured and killed at Malfoy Manor during Death Eater meetings, and their bodies disposed of afterwards.

Mulciber’s father was the first example. An old schoolmate of mine, he’d been quick to join my organization when he realized how powerful I was. He’d accompanied me back to Hogwarts when I’d interviewed for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position; and his son, a friend of Snape’s, had been initiated several years later. Lucius told me he’d heard rumors that Mulciber Senior had renounced his old ways after a few years of believing me dead. No one made anything of it at the time. Now, however, I was very much alive. And very much incensed. 

Snape had been the person to locate the elder Mulciber. He’d found the old man by posing as a messenger for an Auror friend, locating Death Eaters to bring them to justice. Being a double agent and therefore the only Death Eater who could make such requests in public, Snape had tracked him down easily.

Mulciber lived in a small cottage out in the country. At seventy years old, he had slowed the pace of his life considerably and fancied himself free of his obligations to me. He was quite wrong.

Snape told us that when Mulciber had answered the door and saw him looking much angrier than he’d appeared last time, he’d known what was coming. He had backed away for a moment, pleading for mercy with his eyes, before Snape had wordlessly grabbed the man and brought him to Malfoy Manor. Lucius imprisoned him in his enchanted basement, from which escape was impossible, until the next Death Eater meeting a week later. I had Lucius fetch the prisoner after everyone was settled at the table. I hadn’t told any of them what they were about to witness—I wanted to study their reactions to the traitor in order to gauge the likelihood of their following his path.

“Ahh, Mulciber, my old friend,” I cooed mockingly as Snape dragged the feeble man into the meeting room. 

“Wha—you—you can’t be—” He rubbed his wrinkled eyes, which he clearly didn’t trust upon seeing me. I was so glad that I would never look or act like that. No one would ever be able to tell that he and I were, technically, very close in age. 

“Surely you recognize me, no?” I taunted.

His eyes widened and he shuddered. “No, that’s—that’s impossible! It can’t be...Tom—”

I strode over to him and slapped him hard across the face. “That is not how you address me!” I scolded. 

“M-my Lord? How do you—”

“I am immortal, my dear old fellow. I can choose how I look.” _There I go again with that convenient half-truth. I think I’ll stick to it if anyone else has the nerve to ask._

“How did you—” 

“I ask the questions, not you! _Crucio!”_

Mulciber screamed and fell to the floor in an unglamorous heap.

“Why have you renounced your loyalty to me?!” I demanded. “Did you think I had died thirteen years ago? Did you think that as long as I was out of sight, you could relinquish your responsibilities? You think I’d let you live a quiet, comfortable life after turning your back on me?”

Piercing screams were my only answer.

“You remember the price you must pay for betraying me, Mulciber!”

“My Lord, I’m sorry...I’m so sorry...you’re right...I was wrong...I’m sorry! I thought you were dead and I didn’t know what to dooo!”

“You should have searched for me! You should have attempted to locate other Death Eaters and carry on my work! You swore unfailing loyalty to me when you took the Mark! What made you think you could renounce that loyalty?”

“I...I...AHHHHH!” 

I added a second round of the Cruciatus curse and held it for a few minutes. The old man was panting and sobbing by the time I lowered my wand. Tears were slipping down his reddened, sagging cheeks as he squeezed his watery eyes shut. The image was pathetic. All the more reason to end his life. 

 _“Incarcerous!”_ I shouted, binding his body on the floor. Not that he’d have the strength to escape otherwise, but it never hurt to take extra precautions. His only protest was a yelp.

After sitting down next to him, I yanked his left arm free of the ropes and lightly ran my finger down his Dark Mark. He winced and tried to pull away—more so as Nagini had begun circling us and hissing loudly.

 _“Not now, dear pet,”_ I told her in Parseltongue. _“This traitor is unique, as he is the first I’ve discovered. You can have the next one.”_

 _“But it looks so enticing,”_ she protested.

 _“The next one. I promise.”_  

She hissed angrily and slithered off into the corner to sulk. I noted that some of the Death Eaters were quite disturbed by this interaction—one, because they couldn’t understand what we were saying; and two, because the concept of a human conversing with a snake unnerved even the most hardened of men. I pretended not to notice their discomfort. 

“This does not belong on your skin anymore, old man,” I declared, pinching Mulciber’s Dark Mark before looking around at all of my followers. “Everyone, allow me to show you what happens when you betray me. You will know the wrath of Lord Voldemort!” 

“M-my Lord, p-p-please don’t—”

“Oh, shut up! You’ve lost your right to speak to me!”

I whispered an incantation to turn the tip of my wand into a sharpened point, and then proceded to dig it into the traitor’s skin. He began screaming once again as I cut a rectangle around his Dark Mark before pulling the skin off. After holding up the ruined tattoo, I stood up and circled my table, holding up the bloody skin in front of each person to see their reactions. Once everyone had gotten an eyeful, I bent down and shoved the flesh into Mulciber’s gaping maw. And then I stuffed it down into his throat for good measure. 

I cast a Cleansing spell on myself to remove the blood, and then kicked the choking Mulciber in the head.

“THIS is what happens if you betray me!” I shouted at my followers, pointing to the convulsing man as he choked on his own flesh. “Does anyone else want to defy me?! Will any of you shirk your responsibilities to me?”

They all shook their heads and tried to hide their alarm at my treatment of Mulciber.

“Throw him back in the dungeon and let him rot,” I ordered Lucius. “Take him back to his cozy little cottage next week. We’ll see if anyone can put the pieces of this puzzle together after they find his body.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius mumbled, and levitated the dying man to bring him down to his enchanted basement.

“This was a special case,” I informed everyone as I sat back down at the head of the table. “Mulciber was one of my first Death Eaters. He must have thought he’d put in enough time serving me to relax for the rest of his life—as you can see, he was quite mistaken. Serving me does not come with a retirement package. 

“Now, in the future, any traitors we discover will be brought back here. I will torture them for whatever information they have on our opposition, and then kill them. I call Mulciber a special case because I do not make a habit of ripping people’s skin off; I don’t enjoy getting blood and tears all over my robes. Torture of the mind is often more damaging to a person with something to hide. You’d do well to remember that fact when you encounter your own victims.” 

I informed the group that anyone discovering the bodies of traitors would see the Dark Mark on their arms; I aimed to start rumors that, instead of getting stronger, Death Eaters were being hunted and killed by an unknown vigilante. There was nothing quite like lulling the public into a false sense of security.

*   *   * 

As the year progressed, Lucius and Narcissa (and I) grew increasingly antsy with the excessive social presence at the Manor, pranks and fights notwithstanding. We devised a plan to restore their home to its standard: being rich, Lucius and Narcissa could afford to buy another house and pay it off immediately. They bought a “smaller summer home”—a three-bedroom house a few miles away from the Manor—for Bellatrix and the others to live in, and shuffled them off after working through all the arrangements and making sure no unwelcome guests would come knocking. The Lestranges promised to pay back the Malfoys once our forces were strong enough that they could afford to be back out in the open, and therefore access their own money at Gringotts. I don’t think the Lestranges were particularly thrilled to host Crouch Jr. and his practical jokes, but there were no other options. And anyway, Rabastan was a very stern, no-nonsense man who would likely put a damper on Crouch’s playful tendencies.

Malfoy Manor was back to normal by the end of February.

Though Lucius was happy to have the prankster out of his house, he was also furious about the incident with the hapless Care of Magical Creatures instructor. I wasn’t sure how much Hagrid was to blame for his hippogriff’s attack on Draco, but Lucius still wanted blood. He finally convinced Cornelius Fudge to hold a trial for the animal, and a hearing was set for mid-April.

In the meantime, Draco was writing home and complaining about everything under the sun. He disliked this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Lupin, because he was too friendly to the Gryffindors and Draco found the lessons boring. He emphasized one of Lupin's lessons, in which the class learned the charm to repel a boggart: _Ridikkulus._ Draco had taken great pride in whispering to his friend Crabbe, “This _class_ is ridiculous,” upon learning the name of the spell. Lucius and I both rolled our eyes as he read this sentence aloud over lunch.

“Did he really just say—”

“Yes, my Lord. He did say that.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Doesn’t he have anything more important to write home about?” 

Lucius sighed. “As long as he’s getting the most out of his education, I can tolerate this...this—” He awkwardly waved the letter around. 

_Drivel. You can tolerate this drivel. That makes one of us. Your boy had better shape up and become an acceptable Death Eater in a few years, or you’re all dead._

Malfoy Junior certainly did have more important topics on his mind. Despite his snide comments about his teachers, the main target of his ire was The Mudblood. He was still behind her in marks. She still wasn’t respecting him. And after Hagrid’s trial, where his precious beast was sentenced to death, the girl threw a fit and screamed at Draco for gloating. She called him a “foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach.” (I couldn’t argue with her there—except for the “evil” part. I don’t think Draco Malfoy could be evil if he tried.) And then, oh horror of horrors, she received detention after getting caught trying to free the hippogriff from his enclosure mere minutes before his execution. The gossip around Hogwarts was that Dumbledore had to lead the girl away in tears, because she refused to move until the Headmaster threatened to suspend her. Draco heard the news and couldn’t wait to share it with his parents. He needed them to know that he was _infinitely_ more well-behaved than that _stupid_ girl.

Well-mannered or not, the girl certainly wasn’t stupid. She was still going on her rampage trying to convince everyone that the basilisk existed and was responsible for the previous year’s murders. We were now in the middle of a new school year with no more basilisk attacks, no more threats, and no more clues as to the Chamber’s whereabouts. Bully for her. Draco told his parents that many people thought she was losing her mind—especially considering that the rest of the British Wizarding world had grown preoccupied with another threat: escaped Azkaban inmate Sirius Black. The man had been on the loose for months and, though no one had caught him, everyone at Hogwarts was on high alert. There were rumors that, while incarcerated, he’d been moaning in his sleep, “He’s at Hogwarts...he’s at Hogwarts....” But _who_ was at Hogwarts, and why did Sirius care? Though full of speculations, no one had any answers. I did have my suspicions, though—perhaps a professor or student he deemed responsible for his incarceration? 

In an attempt to shield the school and capture Sirius, Dumbledore had placed some of the Dementors of Azkaban around the castle perimeter at the start of term. These cloaked, soul-sucking guards hadn’t managed to stop Sirius from escaping prison; so how they were suppose to catch him elsewhere was beyond me, but Dumbledore was adamant. He had given the students a long speech on the first night of the school year, explaining the grave danger outside the castle walls, and how best to avoid angering a Dementor. He told his students that Dementors were powerful, ruthless creatures who would not hesitate to ruin anyone in their way... _but don’t worry, as long as you avoid them, you’ll be fine! They’re here to catch a mass murderer who would also hurt you if he came to Hogwarts—which he just might! But don’t worry! Really! I have everything under control!_  

Typical Dumbledore. Always going from one extreme to another—either not doing enough to prevent problems, or trying too hard to stop them and causing more problems in the process. It had happened when I was a student, as he’d practically begged his fellow professors to see me as a monster and not a quiet, unassuming orphan; and he instead made himself look like a raving lunatic. 

It had happened again when I’d returned to Hogwarts to attain the position of Defense professor, and he’d denied me. Had he allowed me back into the school, I would not have had to place a curse on the Defense position, plaguing the school for decades.

And it was happening again now, with Dumbledore on thin ice as he brought bloody _Dementors_ to his school to search for a fugitive that the creatures hadn’t been able to hold in prison. For all his achievements, there were moments when Dumbledore really was quite dense. No other Headmaster would have allowed Dementors onto Hogwarts grounds for any reason. 

Draco was a bit anxious over this development, like his classmates, but concealed it with obnoxious pranks in which he, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle snuck up on people and scared them by pretending to be Dementors. He’d bought scary Halloween masks from Hogsmeade, which he and his goons donned after pulling up their hoods. They then made spooky sounds after grabbing an unsuspecting student—usually someone younger and lacking in popularity—and leaned in close enough to mimic sucking out their soul. They got away with this for several months before an enraged Professor Lupin caught them in the act one day. He confiscated their masks, gave them a month of detention, and docked each boy fifty points. In a very loud tone. No one knew why Lupin had reacted with such intense fury, as the soft-spoken man rarely raised his voice or doled out such extreme punishments, but something about Draco’s prank had obviously set him off. Maybe the man was simply on edge over Sirius Black’s escape and his emotions were heightened, or maybe he was grappling another struggle entirely. I wondered what it was.

And so Draco’s reputation with his Housemates finally took a hit, with all the points he and his friends had lost in such a short time. Slytherin definitely wouldn’t be winning the House Cup this term. I imagined this angering Draco as much as his detentions with Lupin. “This is servant stuff!” he complained in a letter to Lucius after a week of cleaning classrooms without magic.

If the boy didn’t tidy up his act, he’d have far worse things to complain about in a few years. He’d _wish_ his worst punishments involved household chores. 

*   *   *

Just like the previous year, I refused to tell the Malfoys that I possessed important information on current events—I was forcing them to speculate as much as everyone else. They weren’t special, and had no need of the facts I was keeping to myself.

I had once more pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes without them realizing it: Sirius wasn’t the threat; he was the victim. He’d been framed. His friend-turned-Death Eater Peter Pettigrew was the one everyone should have been searching for. As the Potters’ best friend, James and Lily had entrusted Sirius with the secret of their hiding place when they learned that I was hunting them to kill their son. And then, realizing that I would likely torture their best friend for information, they suddenly changed their secret keeper to Peter, who came running to me. I never thanked the little rat properly—but niceties weren’t on my mind when my body was being destroyed in my first attempt at killing that pesky Potter boy. 

Speaking of which, I wondered what the Aurors would have done if they’d realized Pettigrew was the reason I still had my wand. The rat had scurried around the property upon finding his former best friends’ bodies, and stowed my wand for safekeeping. Had he thought I would return one day? Was he hoping to upstage me at some point? Who knew. All that mattered was that he had owled my wand to me at Malfoy Manor after hearing that Potter was dead—he’d known it was me. He may have been a sneak, but he knew better than to hide his master’s wand.

Black must have escaped to find Pettigrew and exact revenge for his friends’ murders. The more I thought about it, the more I suspected that Pettigrew was the person Black had been moaning about in his sleep. I hadn’t the faintest idea how he’d been able to escape from Azkaban, or why he thought Pettigrew was at Hogwarts, but I had to hand it to the man for his determination to brave an army of Dementors to settle the score. Were he not such a bleeding-heart, he might have made a spectacular Death Eater like some of his relatives before him. Pity. 

I really didn’t care what happened to Black, but I was glad that his escape was taking everyone’s attention off of the events I’d set in motion the previous year. His escape had made the front page of the Daily Prophet several months back, and the deaths of Potter and his friends were suddenly old news. And by “old news” I mean that instead of all the reporters scrambling for every possible scrap of information on the tragedy, Hermione Granger was now being regularly subjected to Rita Skeeter’s expert psychological evaluations in her editorials. This reporter’s childish gossiping was the only way to keep people’s interest in the subject and thus boost newspaper sales. _Has the girl been drinking?_ Skeeter speculated. _Has she lost the ability to distinguish fantasy from reality? Perhaps she is in such a state of denial that she is pulling images from her nightmares and insisting that they are messages about where her friends’ bodies lie! Maybe she should take a trip to St. Mungo’s...._

 _“But why won’t anyone believe me?”_ I imagined her whining to Professor Dumbledore, crying and waving her arms about like a petulant child.

Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I killed the only Parselmouth at Hogwarts...and then I sent the basilisk back into its lair and _it’s not doing anything...._  

Sill girl. I found myself holding in a laugh every time Lucius wondered aloud if Hermione’s theory had merit—I’d never even told _him_ the truth. The only information I’d given him when passing him my diary was the knowledge that it could be used to open the Chamber of Secrets. I did not tell him what was inside the Chamber, who the Heir of Slytherin was, or the consequences of the Chamber having been opened. His only instructions had been to guard the diary with his life and find a way to pass it on to Harry Potter, or a gullible student close to him, in order to open the Chamber. He had succeeded, while remaining as ignorant as ever. I was pleased.

Given everyone’s reactions to Hermione’s ranting, I no longer saw her sleuthing as a threat. If anyone took her seriously, Draco would surely be the first to announce it—and he never did. We were all set. 

*   *   * 

After the hippogriff was executed, Lucius finally stopped complaining. I only wished I could have said the same for his son. Though Draco’s letters were full of insignificant non-issues, some of his points were valid, such as the fear gripping Hogwarts over Sirius Black’s escape and the Dementors at Hogwarts. (Gravity of the issue aside, Draco still had the nerve to complain about his confiscated Halloween mask.) 

Despite Dumbledore’s promise that everyone was safe from Sirius, the fugitive circumvented Dumbledore’s security measures and snuck into Hogwarts late one night. Head Boy Percy Weasley found the ragged man standing over his bed with a knife and a crazed facial expression, prompting a swift evacuation of all students to the Great Hall, where they slept while the professors searched for the offender. They never found him.

The Dementors clearly weren’t doing their job. Black’s disruption resulted in heightened security around the school from Aurors, restricted Hogsmeade visits for students, and earlier curfews, with harsher punishments for students out of bed after hours. Being as sheltered as he was—and also being the son of a prominent Death Eater—Draco likely didn’t understand everyone else’s fear because he didn’t feel the same trepidation at the thought of a serial killer on the loose. His father served one, for Merlin’s sake. Draco probably fancied himself invincible.

Draco wasn’t the only one complaining about Sirius—all the  _Daily Prophet_ writers were still obsessed with the Ministry’s search for the fugitive.  _Dangerous, deranged, notorious mass murderer!_ the newspaper proclaimed.  _Rabid supporter of He Who Must Not Be Named!_ _Extremely dangerous! Ten thousand Galleons on his head!_  

The headlines went on and on as the Ministry officials continued chasing their own tails looking for Sirius Black, while the _real_ supporters of Me Who Must Not Be Named were crawling out of the woodwork. Right under their noses. If only they had known that none of their security measures against Sirius (and Peter) would accomplish a thing, because the two former friends would soon end up in a showdown for the ages.

Other than that one sighting at Hogwarts, _The Daily Prophet_ gave us nothing but speculations on the whereabouts of Sirius Black until the beginning of June, as the Hogwarts academic year was drawing to a close. Then came a story that was so long that the paper decided to print a Special Edition that day. People wanted all the details. 

Apparently, the escaped convict had contacted his old friend Professor Lupin and told him who had really betrayed the Potters. The two of them teamed up one night, with Sirius under a Disillusionment charm, to hunt down Peter Pettigrew. They found him dozing in a sleazy pub in Hogsmeade. This made it easy for them to subdue him and take his wand, after which they brought him to Hogwarts to finally face the consequences of his actions. Lupin explained everything to Dumbledore and, upon the Headmaster’s promise not to harm Sirius, the latter removed his Disillusionment charm. Dumbledore then contacted Cornelius Fudge with the news. Once the Minister arrived at Hogwarts, Dumbledore summoned Snape to administer Veritaserum, forcing Pettigrew to tell all. 

Pettigrew’s confession included his status as an unregistered Animagus, and the rat who had positioned himself as the Weasley family pet for twelve years. He did this after cutting off his own finger and assuming his rat form to frame Black for his crimes. He was the rat sleeping next to Percy Weasley, whom Black had been trying to stab when he’d snuck into Hogwarts. Black was exonerated and granted a public pardon—though Lupin felt pressured to resign his teaching post because, mid-confession, Pettigrew let it slip that Lupin was a werewolf. The professor knew that such information would never stay private. According to this Special Edition article, Lupin and Black were seen exiting Hogwarts together the following morning with all of Lupin’s belongings; the werewolf had promised to take care of Black until his friend had recuperated enough to begin rebuilding his life.

What fun that must be, to have an escaped Azkaban prisoner in one’s home! I couldn’t _possibly_ imagine what  _that_ must be like!

I didn’t give a damn what Sirius Black and his friends were up to, as long as they stayed out of my way. Pettigrew would certainly be staying out of my way now, with a lifetime Azkaban sentence ahead of him—unless he, too, escaped. I wasn’t sure I deemed him worthy enough to break out of prison. I’d have to think on that.

And I loved how, after all these years, no one knew about my curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post. I was already curious about who Dumbledore would hire for the upcoming school year. 

*   *   * 

At the end of July, Lucius received a letter from Cornelius Fudge, inviting the Malfoys to sit in the Minister’s Box during the Quidditch World Cup. Draco was ecstatic—though he seemed more excited at the prospect of boasting about his family’s view of the match more than the match itself. What a surprise.

Fudge’s invitation gave me an idea. Seeing as I was finally getting some results in rebuilding my army, an event like the Quidditch World Cup would be the perfect place to send a message to my enemies—and the entire Wizarding world.

During subsequent Death Eater meetings, we began making plans for my followers to invade the campgrounds after the match. The Death Eaters would have to attend the match as guests, like everyone else, but with their Death Eater robes and masks shrunk and hidden inside their normal attire. (It was around this time that we also decided to stop the anonymity during meetings—more often than not, my followers would now be hiding in plain sight during assignments, and they would thus need to know the identities of their comrades. Since the risk of being captured and tortured for information was always present, I began teaching them Occlumency to compensate.)

As for the Quidditch World Cup, we decided that the Death Eaters would link up after the match and don their uniforms, burn everything to the ground, and conjure the Dark Mark in the sky for all to see. The task sounded easy enough, but would take careful planning to execute properly. There was always a heavy security presence at the Cup, and we needed to know exactly what measures to take to avoid detection. Where would Aurors be stationed? Where were all the guests be pitching their tents? Would some of the Death Eaters need to bring their own tents in order to blend in? Where and how would they be able to signal their locations to each other and regroup in a timely fashion? They couldn’t just strut around as a flock of black cloaks and angry sneers in front of everyone.

Being an employee of the Ministry, Lucius was able to oversee some of these details and report back to me. We brainstormed and planned everything out for the next month, so that we’d be all prepared by August 25, when the Irish and Bulgarian Quidditch teams arrived in England to face off for the Cup. I would not be joining the Death Eaters—the idea was to make people wonder if I was really back, or if my most loyal followers were simply planning an uprising to keep my ideals alive. I wanted the civilians scared and on high alert, but not knowing exactly what kind of threat they were facing. Stressed, distractible people were easier to control than calm ones.

The World Cup had suddenly taken center stage at _The Daily Prophet_ as well as my table. I found myself tossing the paper aside after only reading half of it, as the writers were dedicating so much of their word count to information about the competing teams and Quidditch history. Unlike the Malfoys, and most of the Wizarding world, I didn’t care about the match. Narcissa didn’t seem enthralled with it, either; she would have opted to stay home with Margo, had she not been tasked with watching the children and keeping them away from the Death Eaters’ activities. They were not yet old enough to witness my followers in action.

I obviously ordered Lucius to share everything with me once the job was done—everything from our destructive little afterparty; not the match itself. I didn’t care about a bunch of pansies flying around on broomsticks for fun. 

Lucius came home with quite an eventful tale. 

After everyone had arrived on the campgrounds, Fudge had greeted the Malfoys like old friends and led them to the Minister’s box. They’d had to endure lots of meaningless small talk—Fudge babbling on about his excitement over the tournament being in England this year; and Fudge’s wife chewing Narcissa’s ear off talking about their nephew, Rufus, who worked in the Improper Use of Magic Office. Draco obviously hadn’t cared about any of that; all he’d wanted was the status symbol of being in the Minister’s Box. The boy did enjoy Quidditch, and was the Slytherin team’s adept seeker, but I knew he was after glory more than enjoyment of the sport. Margo remained mostly silent, only speaking when spoken to. 

Lucius mentioned that the Weasleys had been present—well, what was left of them. They were still an unnaturally large clan, even with their two youngest spawn dead. Malfoy described the family as too much ginger in one place. I agreed. (“If it rains, you’ll be the first to know!” Lucius had jeered at the twins Fred and George, who’d been screaming with excitement over snagging seats on the highest level of the stadium.)

To begin their assignment, the Death Eaters had gathered on the outskirts of the campgrounds, forming a line. No one looking at them would have been able to tell that they were in a formation, as they were spread far enough apart, and were able to signal to each other once everyone was in their assigned position.

They had planned and timed it perfectly: they cast Disillusionment charms on themselves before donning their Death Eater attire, and then removed the charms, in exactly the same amount of time, so as to begin their acts of destruction all together. They had burned the entire campground to rubble within half an hour, torturing those who tried to fight against them. Barty Crouch Jr. had cast the Dark Mark once the campground was vacated and only the Death Eaters remained. 

I was impressed. 

 _The Daily Prophet_ came in the next morning with the headline _Terror at the World Cup!_ I chuckled at the writer’s lame attempt to make it sound like the security at the campgrounds had been the best on Earth, so how could this _possibly_ have happened? Then came the usual postulations on my whereabouts, the meaning of the attack, and what the Wizarding world should do if such an event ever happened again. I figured I’d let them ruminate on that for a while as I continued amassing more followers.

*   *   *

Draco began his fourth year at Hogwarts a week after the World Cup. His first letter home spoke of his arrogance finally landing him in trouble with the wrong person: the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody. Apparently, Draco had been “arguing” with Hermione Granger—which more than likely meant  _antagonizing_ her, but what did I know—and Moody had caught him. Well, _caught_ was an understatement. The professor drew his wand while screaming at Draco for being a bully, and Transfigured him into a ferret. A ferret who bounced up and down for a solid minute at the whim of Moody’s wand, to the delight of the surrounding students...until an irate Professor McGonagall rushed over and berated Moody for using Transfiguration as a punishment.

Moody sent the Malfoys a follow-up letter, apologizing for Transfiguring their son (probably at McGonagall’s request, not because he regretted doing it), but also clarifying that Draco had instigated the argument; he had insulted Hermione’s parentage and raised his wand to curse her as she walked away from him. Moody told Lucius that his son needed to learn to respect others, and certainly not be so cowardly as to curse someone when their back was turned. Lucius relayed this information to his embarrassed son a few days later. What he didn’t mention was that Moody had also written, _Remember, Malfoy, I used to be an Auror. It was once my job to think as men like you do. I have not forgotten my training_. Lucius felt no inclination to pass that warning on to Draco.

Draco obviously had learned the insult _Mudblood_ from his father, so Lucius wasn’t going to scold him for using the term, but he did warn Draco not to get on Moody’s bad side. And after a Defense lesson that involved Moody demonstrating the Unforgivable Curses, and hurling a gigantic Imperiused spider onto Draco’s face, the young Malfoy finally got the message. (But, of course, after complaining about the spider on his face, he had to make fun of Neville Longbottom for being rattled by Moody’s demonstration of the Cruciatus curse. The boy really was too predictable—always having to belittle someone else even while being humiliated in front of his classmates. Nothing was ever _his_ fault.)

A few weeks later, a surprising thing happened: instead of a slew of complaints and shallow bragging, Lucius began receiving a gushing fanboy’s adoration over one Viktor Krum: the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s Seeker, the youngest in the world, who had taken up residence at Hogwarts with some of his fellow students from the Durmstrang Academy of Magic. It just so happened that this academic year, Hogwarts would be hosting the legendary Triwizard Tournament, and thereby housing students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. Draco didn’t care for his school’s new French occupants, but he was utterly fixated on Durmstrang and Krum.

I was not interested in the Triwizard Tournament, but I _was_ interested in Draco’s impression of the Durmstrang students and their Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff.

Karkaroff was one of my former Death Eaters. A traitor. A dead man walking. He had been imprisoned in Azkaban, only being freed after he’d given up Bellatrix and the others for their torture of the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom. He publicly renounced his status as a Death Eater once released, with the threat of being carted back off to Azkaban if he ever voiced his support for me again. No one had heard a word from him until he’d resurfaced as the Headmaster of Durmstrang. And he certainly hadn’t come to Malfoy Manor a few months earlier, when he’d felt the Dark Mark burn on his arm.

I would have to watch the events at Hogwarts more closely. At the start of term, Draco wrote home that Dumbledore and Karkaroff had embraced like old friends—the latter was clearly finished being a Death Eater. Which also meant that he would soon be finished with breathing. I found it funny that the then-Auror Alastor Moody had been the one to capture Karkaroff; and now, the two of them were living under one roof, proclaiming to be on the same side. Not only that, but Barty Crouch Sr. was officiating the Triwizard Tournament and living at Hogwarts until June. Not many knew that he had sent his own son to Azkaban after hearing testimony from Karkaroff all those years ago. I instructed Lucius to write back to Draco, expressing enthusiastic interest in the subject, thereby encouraging Draco to report any updates in his letters. 

Of course Dumbledore would willingly house a former Death Eater. I wasn’t the least bit shocked by this news. I was, however, a bit surprised at his decision to hire Mad-Eye to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts; especially given the now ex-Auror’s hatred for Karkaroff. Dumbledore certainly had a penchant for kindling bonds with former enemies and trying to unite everyone in a big, fluffy bundle of love. It really was ridiculous. What was he doing, living in a children’s book? The real world didn’t work like that. I couldn’t even begin to understand his thought process in making such absurd decisions.

The Headmaster’s tolerance of Karkaroff oddly reminded me of his duel with Gellert Grindelwald, which had happened during my last year as a Hogwarts student. I had been fascinated by the Dark wizard and his hunger for power and Wizarding supremacy over Muggles, which mirrored my views in some ways; though, unlike me, Grindelwald had wanted to take over the entire world. I wanted power, sure, but my biggest goals had always been immortality and influence at Hogwarts. I wanted to be invincible and respected and have endless knowledge at my fingertips for all eternity. I wasn’t interested in world domination; that would require too much effort into activities I had no interest in pursuing. I couldn’t be bothered.

Had I been in Dumbledore’s position, I would have killed Grindelwald in the duel. Why imprison him? He had evaded capture for so long, and could surely break free again.

I’d heard rumors that Dumbledore had once been intimite with Grindelwald, but had cut ties with him when he realized what the man was planning. Whether they had merely been shagging or actually engaging as partners, such stark differences in political views would surely have ended the relationship and fostered enormous resentment on both sides. Had I ever had a partner and discovered that her allegiances were with my enemies, I would have killed her on the spot.

Why would he keep an enormously powerful wizard like Grindelwand alive, while in a position to strip him of his power? If I were Dumbledore and had felt so profoundly betrayed by my former partner, I would have assassinated Grindelwald the second I had my chance. I killed followers who betrayed me. All the Death Eaters knew that they woud either serve me or die. There was no in-between. Dumbledore’s weakness toward Grindelwald had proven quite impractical. Perhaps this softness fueled his overcompensation in trying to fix problems at Hogwarts—either those that fell into his lap, or those of his own making.

Also impractical was Draco Malfoy’s blatant adoration of Viktor Krum. The boy obviously wanted to be a Quidditch player like Krum when he grew up—not like his father would let him—and even went so far as to root for Durmstrang over Hogwarts in the Triwizard Tournament. He wanted to see Krum take home the Triwizard Cup...and a friendship with Draco in the process. One more famous person for young Malfoy to brag about being chummy with. His admiration for Krum reminded me a bit of the way his grandfather had viewed me. 

Lucius rolled his eyes—a common theme when reading his son’s letters—as he shared with me Draco’s disappointment after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. The Hogwarts champion, Cedric Diggory, had finished first and Krum had finished second. Malfoy Junior went on and on about how Krum was so much stronger and should have come out on top. As a professional Quidditch player, shouldn’t he have easily wiped the floor with his two competitors? Neither Lucius nor I spent any time discussing the matter after we’d read Draco’s letters.

Unlike Draco, I actually had something valid to be angry about. My followers’ actions at the Quidditch World Cup brought on an unintended consequence: the resurfacing of The Order of the Phoenix, a no-longer-secret society whose goal was conquering the Death Eaters once and for all. The society had disbanded after my defeat in 1981, but its members felt the need to come back together after seeing the Dark Mark at the World Cup.

The organization had remained a secret until a week after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. No one knew how the information had leaked, but someone had fed the name and purpose of the organization to _The Daily Prophet_. A few reporters did some investigating and eventually convinced the group to come forward.

Lucius told me that newspaper sales exploded that week, since _The Daily Prophet_ featured a detailed article about the Order. It included photographs of members past and present, and a list of those I had killed. Prominent current members included Arthur and Molly Weasley, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and Mad-Eye Moody. Remus and Sirius were the new leaders, and spoke for the group when reporters came knocking. In an interview for the Order’s first newspaper article, the men vowed to do everything in their power to destroy me. They were practicing and inventing complex defensive spells, recruiting new members whenever possible, and subjecting those individuals to extreme tests to measure their character and trustworthiness. They were also encouraging Hogwarts students to contact them—whether for the purpose of joining the organization or lending support on the sidelines. Remus proudly told the Prophet that several older Hogwarts students had pledged their support of the organization and vowed to join once they’d graduated. Their numbers were increasing steadily.

Clearly, my forces weren’t the only ones growing stronger. I was in for quite a fight.


	4. Alex | Year 1 (1998-1999)

Better stand tall when they’re calling you out  
Don’t bend, don’t break  
Baby, don’t back down 

—Bon Jovi ~ “It’s My Life”

 

I bounced out of bed at seven in the morning on September 1. I’d barely slept, but my adrenaline was pumping too hard for me to be tired. Once I’d stretched and taken a few deep breaths to try and center myself, I silently crept around the room and began to gather my things. I was all packed by the time Morgan woke up. My parents were pleasantly surprised. 

We had a strained, quiet breakfast before hugging Grandma Rosie goodbye and leaving for King’s Cross station. 

I grew nervous as we approached Platform 9¾—one, because running headfirst at a brick wall was terrifying, even with my family doing it with me; and two, I had a feeling that I’d be the only American going to the British magic school. My parents assured me that as long as I behaved, I would settle in just fine. They promised that we would write often. I nodded and made my way onto the train.

Since I didn’t know anyone, I sat in an empty compartment. My hopes of being left alone vanished when a small brown-haired girl poked her head in the doorway.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked timidly.

I shook my head. I didn’t want to speak unless absolutely necessary, to delay the inevitable shock over my accent.

She cautiously sat down opposite me, and we sat in awkward silence for a moment. 

“I’m Melinda Roberts,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Alex Halaway.” 

“Are you a first year?”

“Mhm. You?”

“Yes. I’m a little nervous. Are you?” 

“Yeah. I think my parents expect a lot, but I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you American?” 

 _Here we go._ “Yeah. I know it’s weird that I’m not going to Ilvermorny; but my mother is from England, so I got a letter from Hogwarts. I guess it’s ‘cause I’m half English.”

“That makes sense. Do you know anyone from England?” 

“No. All the kids I know are going to Ilvermorny.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll make some friends.” She smiled.

_Seems like a nice girl. At least ONE person doesn’t care about my nationality._

“Do you know what house you want to be in?” I asked.

“I hope I’ll be in Gryffindor. Everyone in my family has been. I don’t know what I’ll do if I get sorted anywhere else!” 

 _Oh, make me vomit._ “A lot of my mom’s family was, too. And Ravenclaw. We all think I’ll be a Ravenclaw.”

Though I desperately wanted to be alone with my thoughts, I forced myself to engage in small talk with Melinda until we arrived at school. It was good practice for all the socializing I would soon have to do.

*   *   * 

My eyes widened as the boats took all the first years across the lake to Hogwarts.

“Wow, it’s so pretty!” Melinda breathed.

“It’s...so big,” I replied, unable to tear my eyes away from the large and looming castle. My heart pounded. My palms were sweaty. If I could have, I would have forgotten to blink.

All the other first years seemed to share my feelings as we assembled in the Great Hall, right before the Sorting Hat began to sing. Professor McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress, then called all the first years to the front of the hall to be sorted. The process seemed to take forever, and I began zoning out until I heard McGonagall call out, “HALAWAY, ALEXANDRA!” 

I cautiously approached the Sorting Hat and sat down to await my placement. My nerves had calmed considerably as I realized that no one could hear what the Sorting Hat said to each student before Sorting them—I’d initially been terrified of a character assassination and was already planning my exit strategy by the time the first child in my class walked up to the Hat. Thankfully, my panic had been for nothing.

The Hat talked about how different I was from my mother, whom the Hat had remembered as a cautious but studious Ravenclaw. It then remarked that I seemed ambitious to the exclusion of a desire for a social life and unconcerned with the welfare of others, more so than almost any student to ever study at Hogwarts. This was apparently an interesting combination of traits.

 _Gee, what a surprise. I’m always more like this or less like that than everyone else, and my standing out is so memorable that we have to make a huge fuss over it. Even with an ancient hat. Gag me. Just say Ravenclaw and get me out of here. I really hate all these people staring at me._  

 _“Are you sure, Little Miss Grouchy?”_ the Hat replied inside my head, in a teasing tone. _“You certainly have the intelligence of a Ravenclaw, but might you be trying to do what’s expected of you to avoid more disapproval?”_

 _I’m not trying to do anything; Ravenclaw just seems ideal,_ I thought to the Hat _. I’m smart and I like books._

_“That which seems ideal is not necessarily the best choice, you know.”_

I opened my mouth to sigh in exasperation, but the Hat’s booming voice startled me into silence. 

“Better be...SLYTHERIN!” 

 _Wait—what?_  

The Slytherins clapped as I approached their table. I appreciated their warm welcome, but silently grew worried. As far as I knew, there had never been a Slytherin, or the American equivalent, in my family. This did not bode well. 

I sat down in the first empty chair I spotted. Like my new Housemates, I clapped every time a new student joined us. It felt nice, compared to the past three nerve-wracking hours. This ritual also allowed me to easily copy what everyone else was doing and therefore blend in. Even as a temporary arrangement, it was a relief.

The peaceful feeling didn’t last long, though. Everyone was chatty, so I couldn’t remain silent forever; especially when course schedules were passed around. I tried to bury my face in the parchment to signal that I was more interested in academics than people, but I eventually had to introduce myself and make conversation. And thus followed everyone’s shock at my being American, and their subsequent suspicions about why I wasn’t at Ilvermorny. The dynamic of these interactions followed the my lifelong pattern: a person questioning the validity of something I couldn’t control, and then growing offended when I became angry with _their_ offensive behavior. Behavior that they had the privilege of seeing as harmless. I couldn’t even have one day at school without such a dynamic. I was seething all through Professor Dumbledore’s announcements, and it took an enormous amount of energy to pay attention.

As a result, I was feeling even less friendly than usual by the time the Headmaster dismissed us to our dormitories for the night. I didn’t want people to stare at me or ask me why I was at Hogwarts. It wasn’t as if I’d pushed my way in; I’d received a letter, just like everyone else! Somehow, my Housemates didn’t believe me and treated me as if I didn’t deserve to be there. I was floored. How could I, at ten years old, possibly have rigged a magical school system to change where I was meant to study? I was angry that I didn’t know any complex spells. If I did, I undoubtedly would have started cursing every person who made fun of my accent or asked me why I wasn’t back in America where I belonged. 

Blending in would take a lot more effort than I’d initially thought. Not only did I have to put on a face, but I also had to deflect an ungodly amount of scrutiny that no other children were facing. And I didn’t want to be a little goody-two-shoes, tattling to teachers every five seconds to complain about yet another student who was harassing me for my nationality—that would make me stand out even more. I needed to figure out a way to fight this battle myself. 

Not knowing how to fix this problem, I found myself feeling frighteningly insecure. This enraged me. I was supposed to have left that behind when I got away from my family! How could I settle in at Hogwarts and make friends when everyone around me assumed that I didn’t belong as soon as I opened my mouth? How could I assert myself and convince my classmates that insulting me was not worth their while?

These were the thoughts I pondered as I drew my curtains and climbed into bed that night, deadly quiet while all my new Housemates chattered excitedly, getting to know each other. None of them were interested in including me. Angry tears slid down my cheeks for a while before I finally fell asleep.

*   *   *

I woke up feeling raw inside. My emotions were catapulting this way and that like an acrobat inside my body. Though I was excited to finally begin my classes, I kept hearing my parents’ voices, warning me how easily I could make a bad impression and how hard it was to repair a shattered reputation. As if I weren’t already painfully aware. Could I pull this off? Would I be able to find all my classes without getting lost and looking stupid? Would my teachers like me? Would I be expelled or held back a year if I angered the wrong person? 

I realized I could only mentally prepare myself so much. As much as I was a bundle of frayed nerves, I needed to just take a deep breath and roll with it.

My first class of the morning was Transfiguration. I wasn’t sure what to make of Professor McGonagall, whom I recognized from the Sorting ceremony—she was clearly strict, but she also seemed to genuinely care about all of her students. And given my performance in the first lesson that day, she definitely could tell that I had begun studying over the summer. My hard work earned me five points for Slytherin. I was beaming as I hurried to the Potions classroom. 

I liked that Potions was close to the Slytherin dungeons, and Professor Snape’s classroom felt like a small dungeon all by itself. It was cozy. (But I knew better than to tell my Housemates I considered a dungeon cozy.) 

Snape seemed like a loveless McGonagall, but I didn’t mind. He favored the Slytherins anyway, as Head of House, so I had a bit of privilege there regardless of my talent in the subject. Unfortunately, this also meant that I felt a lot of pressure to uphold the Slytherin reputation in his classroom. I made a few mistakes out of nervousness before mentally berating myself to concentrate. A Gryffindor boy’s completed boil-cure potion was slightly better than mine, but Snape still acknowledged my finished product with a quiet “Well done, Miss Halaway,” and a brief upward twich of his mouth. I smiled politely in response. 

The rest of my classes passed in the same manner. During moments of quiet, I snuck glances at the other students and realized that everyone appeared just as nervous as I was. I hadn’t even considered that possibility. It made me feel a bit silly, thinking that I would be more nervous than everyone else, but I was also the only foreigner. I had every right to think the stakes would be higher for me—as they often were back home. 

As persistent as my predicament was, my insecurity didn’t last nearly as long as I’d thought it would. Within a few weeks, I’d gotten into the swing of things, and actually started to feel comfortable...with myself, at least. Some of my teachers were uneasy around me, while others adored me and sung my praises at every opportunity because of my studiousness and wonderful marks. Having a leg up on the other students gradually dulled my fears over my social status to a manageable level. I was still quite melancholy, but I wasn’t terrified to the point that it threatened to interfere with my studying. Using my classwork as an escape from my social problems worked beautifully—until the occasional moments I actually wanted someone to talk to. Then the absence of comrades grew too large to ignore. 

Making friends still eluded me. I stood out too much from the other students, both for my accent and my demeanor. No matter how hard I tried to copy what others were doing, blending in never worked. Part of the reason behind my social awkwardness was that deep down, I wasn’t sure if I really _wanted_ to be social, outside of sporadic moments. Interacting with people drained me. It took me a month just to learn all of my fellow first-year Slytherins’ names, and getting to know them took even longer. (I didn’t even bother with the older kids.)

Ashlee Randall and Monica Hollingsworth were neighbors who had been best friends since they were seven. They were both loud and outgoing, and laughed often. Jon Picquery was the classic cool kid strutting about the castle like he was invincible, Josh Thundercloud and Levi Gordon were his sidekicks, and Mark Smither was the resident goofball. Amy Martin, the mischievous girly girl, was quickly developing a crush on said goofball. Sarah Ernestine, Justin Bender, Leah Montgomery, Jessica West, and Felix Jackson were all fairly quiet and spent most of their free time huddled together by the windows of the common room, murmuring to each other as they watched the mermaids swim by. I flitted among them all here and there, trying to see where I’d fit best: the answer was nowhere. I just kept trying, hoping that my efforts at integrating would eventually pay off. Maybe one day, someone would remark, “You know, that girl Alex really isn’t so bad. I want to get to know her better.”

The thrill of my accent had worn down a bit by the time Halloween approached; but I had, unfortunately, already made my mark on the student body. Just because my voice was no longer a big deal didn’t mean that my classmates found my nationality acceptable. I thought it ridiculous. For one, we don’t choose where we’re born; and two, Felix’s family had moved to England from Uganda when he was nine and his father relocated for work—but no one was making fun of _his_ accent. No one asked him why he wasn’t studying at Uagadou instead of Hogwarts. Did my classmates have a problem with foreigners, or did they only have a problem with _me?_

I heard everything from _“Why do you pronounce that word that way? That sounds so stupid!”_ to _“Go back to your country! You shouldn’t be here, American! Your people don’t even speak English properly!”_ I felt cursed somehow; as if no matter what I did, how well I behaved, or how accurately I mimicked normal behavior, it would never matter because it was still _me—_ I had already been branded an outcast. My classmates made it abundantly clear that I could never redeem myself and become part of the group.

I eventually got into a routine of talking to my Housemates at mealtimes and in the common room, but I always had to try so much harder than they did to keep up with the flow of conversation. No one actively chose to include me; I was the last person anyone wanted to talk to, so I had to fight my way in if I wanted to join a discussion. I often sat back and observed everyone else to see what I was doing wrong, and I saw many other kids jumping into conversations and being welcomed. Why not me? Why could other kids flounce in out of nowhere and ask, “What are you talking about?” and be included without hesitation; but if _I_ did that, I received only dirty looks, as if I’d been eavesdropping? 

I figured that if I kept doing what everybody else was doing, my classmates would eventually ease up around me. I resolved to continue my efforts at socializing, regardless of how much energy it took from me, and my efforts finally paid off to some extent. By the end of October, my Housemates began to at least tolerate me without looking aggravated every time I approached them. 

Though frequent, these interactions never materialized into friendships. Since I wasn’t a naturally social person, my attempts at making conversation were almost always forced and awkward. Even the other introverts didn’t know how to react to me. I think everyone could tell on some level that I was faking everything, since I so clearly preferred to keep to myself, but I also grew angry and resentful as I watched my other classmates make friends. They all settled in and found their own cliques easily—why wasn’t this happening to me? Was I really _that_ bad at blending in? Were they resentful of my good grades? Were they jealous of my intelligence? I briefly considered slacking on my schoolwork to see if that would garner me some respect among my classmates, but the thought terrified me. I needed to prove myself and be the best I could, at whatever I could. I was tired of being at the bottom of the barrel. 

Paralyzing insecurity was soon replaced by boiling rage. I could barely hold myself together most days, and I got to a point where I thought I would explode from holding everything inside.

And then the bullying started.

The more subtle rejection came from my Housemates. Though they didn’t mind speaking to me, they would exclude me when planning to spend time together. Their attitude was _You convinced us to tolerate you, and now you also want to_ hang out  _with us? You ungrateful little brat. Take what you can get and be thankful it’s not worse._ They clearly didn’t want _that creepy American—_ according to Felix and Sarah’s hushed voices one day when I passed them in the library—making everyone uncomfortable with her weird accent and bookish tendencies.

I confronted my Housemates in early November, but they denied any wrongdoing. They weren’t ostracizing me; I was just being overly suspicious and finding meanings where there weren’t any! They  _definitely_ would have invited me to study with them if they’d thought I’d actually _wanted_ to join! (Not like they’d given me the option.) My inexperience with advanced magic was the only thing that stopped me from hexing them all. I did, however, fantasize about hurting them on countless occasions. This made me feel better, especially since I knew that they couldn’t read my thoughts.

The more overt harassment came from a group of older Gryffindor girls who wanted to put the lonely little Slytherin in her place so they could feel superior. (Remind me again why the House of Godric Gryffindor is so greatly revered?) It started off with small things—one of them deliberately bumping into me in the hallway and apologizing in such an overly-friendly manner that only I could tell it was fake, but the teachers couldn’t. Then it progressed to running into me and knocking books out of my hands, which _of course_ was an accident because they were panicked about being late for class, which is why they’d been running! They were _so_ sorry they’d slammed into me! And, oh, if only they weren’t running late, they would stay and help me pick my scattered books off the floor! _Best_ of luck, Alex!

This insidiousness continued to escalate for the next month, until I finally snapped. I was exiting the library one Friday evening when a foot appeared out of nowhere and sent me sprawling. My cauldron went sailing from my grasp as my hands and knees made contact with the stone floor, and I screamed in pain. When I looked up, I saw Nicole DeLuca, the leader of the girls who had been bothering me. Her smirk was disappearing into an expression of false concern the instant I turned around. 

“Oh, Merlin, I’m SO sorry!” she gushed, sounding more giddy than guilty. Her exaggerated tone was so over the top, she made me feel like a professional actress. “Do you want help picking up your books?”

“No,” I replied curtly.  _Yeah, like I’d trust you NOT to rip my homework to pieces._  

“Are you sure?” she asked with feathery softness. She knelt down and reached for my History of Magic textbook.

_BANG._

I swung my cauldron as hard as I could and hit her in the head. She grunted and collapsed. 

The subsequent adrenaline rush that flooded my veins halted my breath. I was shaking. My heart raced as the realization hit me: I wanted Nicole in pain. I wanted her incapacitated. I wanted her _dead._ I was ten years old and I wanted to commit murder with every fiber of my being. 

 _Should I whack her in the head a few more times? Is there a killing spell? If I knew it, could I get away with it? No one’s here...._  

I shook my head and scoffed at my ridiculous thoughts. _Killing another student and getting away with it? Please. THAT’S a surefire way to get expelled. And arrested._ I resolved to make a run for it and hope no one could connect me to Nicole’s head injury. As I began hastily packing up my books, a voice startled me. I dropped my cauldron like it was boiling hot. 

“MISS HALAWAY! What have you—ex—EXPLAIN YOURSELF!!” Professor McGonagall shouted. 

“She hurt me!” I held up my reddened hands. “She tripped me and I fell! I—I grabbed onto her and took her with me because I just needed to hold something! I was trying to stay upright!”

“So why did you abandon your cauldron as if it contained poison as soon as I spoke? What were you doing with it that you didn’t want me to see?” Her gaze traveled to the growing bump on Nicole’s temple. “Merlin’s beard! You hit her on the head, didn’t you!” 

“I—it was self-defense, Professor—” 

“You tripped over her foot—”

“She tripped me on purpose!”  _What is this, Dump On Slytherins Day?!_  

“—and after you took her down with you, you also felt the need to assault her with your cauldron?! You expect me to believe a story like that?!”

“Professor, she’s been bothering me for—” 

“Miss DeLuca is an exemplary student who has never even required ONE detention in the three and a half years she’s been at Hogwarts! I don’t know _what_ made you think she deserved to be punished for your clumsiness—”

“I AM  _NOT_ CLUMSY!!” 

“Shouting at a Professor and assaulting a fellow student? That is utterly unacceptable! Detention, Miss Halaway! For a week! And you will accompany me in escorting Miss DeLuca to the hospital wing!” 

My heart dropped. 

“I will be contacting your parents in the morning as well,” she continued as she levitated the fallen girl and directed her body to the infirmary. You have committed a serious offense. We do not tolerate such behavior at Hogwarts. You must learn.”

Hot tears welled up and began rolling down my cheeks. This was beyond unfair. My parents had wasted so much time lecturing me about _my_ bad behavior toward _others_ , but there had not been one discussion about what I should do if _someone else_ mistreated _me._ They only considered the possibility that I would be the aggressor.

Even though I knew my actions toward Nicole had been justified, I had a sinking feeling that my parents would react just like McGonagall: they wouldn’t believe me, either. In any scuffle of mine, I was never a victim and always a perpetrator. And this concept was not up for debate.

“What on Earth are you crying about?!” McGonagall clipped, snapping me back to the present. “You attacked a classmate!  _She’s_ the one who should be crying—when she comes to, of course! And there’s no telling when _that_ might be, depending on how hard you hit her!”

“P-professor, I’m telling the truth. _She_ attacked _me._ I just fought back.”

“I don’t believe you, Miss Halaway. You acted guilty when you realized you’d been caught. You will serve detention with me every night after dinner for the next seven days. I am also deducting twenty points from Slytherin.”

“But—”

“And you will not speak to me again until class tomorrow morning, or I will add more days to your punishment.”

I bit my lip hard as more tears fell.

“Stop crying, child. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s only detention!”

McGonagall looked visibly rattled. How could she be more disturbed by my behavior than Nicole’s? Wouldn’t she want to whack someone over the head if they harassed her for weeks with impunity? 

“Oh my goodness, Minerva! What happened?” exclaimed Madam Pomfrey as we stepped into the infirmary with Nicole’s floating body.

“Miss Halaway,” McGonagall replied, spitting my name like a curse, “hit Miss DeLuca on the head with her cauldron after tripping over her, rendering the poor girl unconscious. She insists it was self-defense, but her behavior indicates otherwise.”

“What—you—what a dreadful thing!” Madam Pomfrey’s face contorted into a visage of sheer disgust as she regarded me. I glared back at her, refusing to be intimidated further. The nurse flinched. “Yes, yes, bring her here,” she stammered, suddenly afraid of meeting my gaze as she gestured for McGonagall to set my _victim_ onto one of the beds.

“You are excused, Miss Halaway,” McGonagall said curtly. “Return to your dormitory immediately. And do not forget detention tomorrow night.”

I bowed my head and scurried out of the infirmary, shaking with rage. 

Peeves the Poltergeist was throwing things in a nearby classroom and making quite a racket. He was the last person I wanted to see; but attempting to muffle the sound of my footsteps didn’t conceal me, unfortunately. 

“ICKLE FIRST-YEAR BEING A BAD GIRLIE?!” the poltergiest shrieked as he suddenly appeared in front of me.

I sighed loudly. “Peeves, go away. I’m not in the mood.”

“NOT IN THE MOOOOOOD?” he parroted back in a singsong voice. “SOOOO, I SHOULD MAAAAAAKE YOU BE IN THE MOOOOD! HOW ABOUT A LITTLE JOKEY-JOKE, ALEXIE?”

“Shut. Up.” 

“BUT PEEVSIE WANTS TO MAKE YOU FEEL—”

 _“Peevsie?_ Who on Earth calls you _Peevsie?!”_  

“Your friend Leah started it! She ADORES me! She loves my solutions to all the problems at Hogwarts! She thinks people should listen to me more! She—” 

“I don’t _care_ what Leah does. I don’t care what _any_ of them do. They’re not my damn friends!” 

“LANGUAGE! LANGUAGE! BAD LITTLE GIRLY IS USING FOUL LANGUAGE! LANGUAGE! LITTLE ALEXIE IS SAYING BAD WORDS! PROFESSOR DUMBLEDOOORRREEE.....”

I sprinted all the way back to my dorm, having had enough of the cackling poltergeist.

*   *   * 

Nicole was, unfortunately, alive and present in the Great Hall for breakfast the next morning. She looked more pale than usual and had a bandage wrapped around her head. I didn’t want to think about what she was muttering to her friends, so I returned to my food and focused on remaining calm. 

Someone tapped me on the shoulder as I walked to Transfiguration. I turned around and saw the battered Nicole frowning down at me. 

“You’ll pay for this, Alex,” she warned. “You could have killed me.”

 _I wish I had._ I sneered and replied, “Nice hairstyle, bitch. I bet you don’t feel so pretty now, do you. Good luck getting into _Witch Weekly_ with an ugly mug like that.” 

Nicole, and her friends I hadn’t noticed behind her, stared at me in shock. They clearly hadn’t expected such a retort, or the sudden twitch of my facial muscles as I fought down another murderous surge of adrenaline. I didn’t want to wait around for a response, so I turned on my heel and disappeared into the crowd. I had no patience for the fourth-years’ bullshit. I was too angry about having to serve detention anyway.

*   *   * 

The detention wasn’t too bad—it was more tedious than anything. McGonagall had me clean various classrooms without magic; and I realized that the more quickly and efficiently I worked, the sooner I could return to my dorm. She was pleased with my cleaning skills.

I felt silly on the morning after my first detention—McGonagall’s punishment should’ve been the least of my concerns. The chastising that _should_ have had me on edge was the one from my parents. 

My family owl carried the bright red envelope into the Great Hall like a harbinger of doom. When the Howler dropped into my lap, so did my stomach. I forced down the bile threatening to rise up in my throat, and steeled myself for the tongue-lashing of the century. 

 _“ALEXANDRA SELINA HALAWAY!”_ my mother’s voice boomed, echoing off the walls of the deathly silent Great Hall. “ _I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT YOU STRUCK A CLASSMATE! YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO TELL US THAT YOU KNOW HOW TO BEHAVE IN PUBLIC, AND THEN YOU KNOCK SOMEONE UNCONSCIOUS WITH YOUR CAULDRON WHEN WE CAN’T SUPERVISE YOU?! YOU DISMISS OUR CONCERN FOR YOUR WELLBEING AS AN INSULT TO YOUR INTELLIGENCE! YOU SCREAM, YOU ROLL YOUR EYES, YOU THROW A TANTRUM LIKE A FIVE-YEAR-OLD, AND THEN YOU EXPECT US TO BELIEVE THAT YOU CAN ACTUALLY HANDLE BEING AWAY FROM HOME? ONE MORE TRANSGRESSION, AND WE WILL PULL YOU OUT OF HOGWARTS AND HOLD YOU BACK A YEAR! POSSIBLY LONGER!”_

And then her voice lowered to that sickening softness she always used when she was angrier than normal and wanted to make me pay for it. In that tone, her voice delivered the grossest humiliation I’d ever experienced.

_“Or, maybe, we should keep you home and hire a private tutor, if you cannot mature at an acceptable pace like all the other children. We will keep you out of Hogwarts permanently if you continue to be such a rude little girl who cannot be trusted to conduct herself appropriately. You should be ashamed of yourself.”_

My heart ripped to pieces along with the Howler. I wanted to scream, but my mouth was bone dry.

This wasn’t an angry threat in a private nook inside Diagon Alley. This wasn’t an argument in the confines of my home. This was a public degradation in front of every occupant of Hogwarts, including all the bullies, who now had loads of extra ammunition against me. I was terrified of what they would do— _“Wahh wahh, poor widdle baby can’t play with the big kids yet!”_ would probably be the least of it. Suddenly, detention with McGonagall seemed more a respite than a punishment. I stared at my breakfast, not daring to lift my brimming eyes and see the reactions of everyone around me. My face burned and my heart pounded wildly as I nervously twisted my fingers around each other in my lap. My breakfast remained uneaten. I was one of the last students to leave the Great Hall that morning.

I worried about further harassment as I made my way to Transfiguration, but was instead met with packs of students anxiously stepping back and letting me pass them as soon as they saw me. In my fear of being teased for, what was it— _not maturing fast enough,_ I’d forgotten to take another factor into account: before my mother had sent the Howler, only a handful of people had known that I’d accosted Nicole with my cauldron. A girl as popular as she would obviously lie about what had happened—and why wouldn’t she? Why would she want everyone to know that she’d been bludgeoned by someone she’d been bullying, who was three years younger and not afraid to fight back? I certainly had a reputation among the first-year Slytherins, but the cauldron incident had been kept hush-hush. 

This meant that when my mother’s Howler had alerted the entire school to the confrontation, every Hogwarts student suddenly knew my name. 

Everyone knew that I had a fiery temper. They knew I had no problem resorting to violence and landing someone in the hospital if provoked badly enough. _And I was only ten years old._ Instead of getting in my face, people wanted to get as far away from me as possible.

The Howler had been a blessing in disguise.

I thanked my mother inside my head—though I would never give her the satisfaction out loud—as the bullying suddenly stopped after my altercation with Nicole. Maybe she and her cronies really _were_ planning something worse than tripping me up; or maybe they were secretly afraid of me now, and just trying to make me afraid as well while they nursed their bruised egos. Regardless of their plans, I was always on high-alert anyway, so Nicole’s threat didn’t disrupt my daily routine. Life became relatively quiet until the middle of December—one evening at dinner, Professor Dumbledore announced that he would be passing around a piece of parchment to each House table to compile a list of students who opted to remain at Hogwarts for winter break. 

 _I DON’T HAVE TO GO HOME!!_ I screamed inside my head.My heart leapt. I couldn’t stop smiling as I gleefully signed my name when the parchment reached the Slytherin table. 

I was the only first-year Slytherin staying behind, and my Housemates kept gawking at my happiness over this. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep the grin off my face—it was one of those smiles that seemed to force itself onto my face with a life of its own, and would not be moved until it grew tired. I struggled not to laugh hysterically.

There was another reason for my smile, which my classmates didn’t know about yet: Professor Dumbledore had sent me a note a few days before, telling me that my academic performance had put me at the top of the class. He cautioned me not to let this achievement get to my head, and also to mind my behavior, lest I ruin my chances of becoming a Prefect in my fifth year. 

I’d never considered becoming a Prefect. It appeared the Headmaster saw my potential, as well as my struggle—perhaps he thought that giving me a concrete goal would steer me onto a path of good behavior and thus keep me out of further trouble. 

Maybe the Headmaster was right. I could only imagine my parents’ shock if I not only remained at the top of the class, but also became a Prefect in four years! That would show ‘em. I all but skipped to my classes for the remainder of 1998. I resolved to behave as well as possible—not like I hadn’t been trying to do that before striking Nicole, but the stakes seemed higher now. I buckled under and spent my winter break studying even harder, determined not to break my academic winning streak. My parents were sad that I wasn’t returning home for the holiday, but they also weren’t surprised. They were disturbed enough when I landed in Slytherin House. Maybe they were even a bit relieved to have me out of the house for two extra weeks.

The happiest two weeks of my entire life. 

For the first time ever, I could be alone without any possibility of being interrupted. I had silence, solitude, and my books. I was nearly done reading through all my textbooks by this time, so I would definitely be ready for that second-year spellbook soon. I could hardly contain my excitement.

*   *   * 

I had mixed feelings at the beginning of 1999. I was happy to be back in class, but annoyed by the hustle and bustle of everyone returning to Hogwarts. I sorely missed my peace and quiet. My Housemates asked me how my holiday was, and I returned the gesture. Just for social practice. I didn’t actually care. 

My eleventh birthday was now a few weeks away. Everyone knew, as Dumbledore posted a list of all the students’ birthdays in the Great Hall at the beginning of each month, but it wasn’t a spectacle. The students simply received a piece of cake after dinner, and well wishes from the professors. That was fine by me, as I didn’t even want presents; I just wanted to be left the hell alone. And people were more than happy to oblige. 

There were a few mumbled _happy birthdays_ from my Housemates, but nothing else. I smiled as a piece of chocolate cake materialized in front of me after I’d finished my dinner. Just as I was about to take a bite, I heard three familiar voices behind me: Callie Heller, Meryl Mandelbaum, and Arielle Nathan. Nicole’s three lackeys. Gryffindors. They had no good reason to be near the Slytherin table.

My stomach flipped and my heart thumped as their voices grew louder. _What are they doing over here? What should I—_

As I cautiously began turning my head to see what was happening, Callie _accidentally_ crashed into Arielle, who _accidentally_ crashed into my back and obstructed everyone’s view of Meryl grabbing my hair and slamming my face into my birthday cake. 

My Housemates fell silent. I froze for maybe two seconds, until Meryl put her hand on my shoulder to begin a performance of fake mortification. I didn’t allow it. As soon as her fingers touched me, I reached up and snapped her hand back in a lightning-quick motion, while a gutteral growl flew from my throat. She shrieked as her wrist broke upon impact. Callie and Arielle gasped. Gritting my teeth as I once more felt adrenaline shoot through me, I stood up, grabbed the plate, and slammed it into Meryl’s face so hard that it shattered. She screamed again as I threw her to the floor and grabbed a shard of the broken plate. Though she was slightly overweight, I didn’t realize how weak the girl was—I easily straddled her flabby waist and began slashing her skin and robes open with the jagged plate shard.

I wanted revenge. I wanted blood. I wanted destruction. I’d had enough.

“I AM DONE WITH YOUR BULLSHIT!!” I bellowed, with spit flying from my twitching, contorting mouth. “DON’T YOU _DARE_ COME NEAR ME AGAIN, BITCH! KEEP YOUR SNOTTY FRIENDS AWAY FROM ME, OR I’LL KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!!! I SWEAR TO MERLIN, I WILL END YOU ALL!!! I AM DONE WITH THE PUSHING—”

Punch to the gut. 

“—AND THE SHOVING—” 

Punch to the shoulder.

“AND THE TRIPPING ME UP—”

Punch to the face. 

“AND THE PRETENDING TO CARE ABOUT MY—”

“ENOUGH, MISS HALAWAY!! _ENOUGH!!!”_ Professor McGonagall shouted as I raised my fist to punch Meryl in the eye. _“PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!”_

I went rigid with my right arm still cocked back, and rolled off of Meryl’s bleeding body.

Everyone in the Great Hall was now on their feet, pointing and hooting and screaming and gasping. 

Professor Dumbledore silenced everyone and strode over to the scene. He regarded me gravely for a moment, and then the most astonishing thing happened: I could have sworn I saw his face soften for a moment, and then wrinkle in deep concern. I was flashing back to everything the Gryffindor girls had done, and it almost looked like he was mirroring what my face would have done as each memory surfaced, had I not been under the Body-Bind Curse. 

_Was he—was he reading my mind??_

“Miss Halaway, please come with me,” the Headmaster ordered softly after lifting the curse. He waved his wand to remove the cake and blood from my skin as I staggered to my feet, ignoring the crying Meryl lying next to me. I fought the urge to viciously kick her in the side of the head as I stood.

“Poppy, please escort Miss Mandelbaum to the infirmary and tend to her wounds,” he told Madam Pomfrey, who had appeared behind us. The shaken nurse skirted around me like I was a contagious disease, refusing to make eye contact with me. She gingerly laced her arm around Meryl’s shoulders and helped the battered girl to her feet before leading her to the hospital wing. I glared at her back as I followed Dumbledore out of the Great Hall.

Once in his office, the Headmaster gestured to a plush chair which he Magicked over to land in front of his desk.

 _This is it. This is my last night at Hogwarts. What do I do? Can I really handle being at my family home every day until I’m seventeen without going crazy? Am I already crazy? Is that why all of this is happening?_  

“Have a seat, Miss Halaway.” Dumbledore’s voice was uncommonly warm, which caught me offguard and heightened my nervousness. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Are you going to expel me, sir?” I asked tentatively as I sat opposite his desk.

“No. I believe you’ve been punished enough.”

“Wh- _what?”_

“Miss Halaway, I understand that some Gryffindor girls have been harassing you for some time. While I do not condone your actions toward them, I do recognize that you have been punished unfairly. Measures must be taken to ensure that others’ mischief does not further interfere with your education. You have as much a right to respect as your fellow students.” 

“Are you—I’m sorry, Headmaster, I’m not trying to give you an attitude, I just—are you serious? No one believes me! Everyone thinks I’m some kind of monster or something, lashing out at innocent kids for no reason! Why do you believe me? Is this a trap? Are you going to tell my parents that I—”

Dumbledore held up his hand to silence me, but his face remained calm. “I have my sources. I have been—”

“Did you read my mind?!” I blurted out. I had to know.

He looked shocked at my assertion for a brief moment, and then his face returned to its former stoicism. “There are Magical arts that allow one to seek truths that are not always obvious,” he answered.

_Way to be evasive, Headmaster. Thanks._

“You can read minds, can’t you!” I said excitedly. As terrified as I was at the prospect of someone reading my thoughts, Dumbledore had effectively saved my Hogwarts education by doing so. He’d seen in my mind what the girls had done to me. There was no other explanation. I refused to accept any other ambiguous non-answer or half-truth.

The Headmaster simply stared.

“You can! Oh, _Merlin!_ Why don’t you wanna tell me?” I probably shouldn’t have addressed the great Albus Dumbledore that way, but I couldn’t help myself. I was even chuckling a bit.

“This is not a laughing matter, Miss Halaway. Not in the least. Please calm yourself.” 

“I’m sorry, sir.” I looked down at my lap and bit my lip to stifle another flood of giggles. This whole conversation was unreal.

“Tell me what has transpired since you arrived at Hogwarts.”

“What do you mean?” 

“All the altercations with other students—even the ones you haven’t told others about. I need to understand the full extent of the problem. And I will know if you are telling the truth.” 

I gaped for a moment, not believing my ears, but I quickly realized he was serious. 

I told him everything. The name-calling, the gaslighting, and the violence. I didn’t lie or exaggerate the events, but I left out wanting to kill my aggressors. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows when I hesitated before skipping over that part, and then his expression hardened. He knew that which I hadn’t wanted to reveal. 

_Damn it. Damn it. Damn it._

I stopped talking and bowed my head until Dumbledore spoke again. 

“It is called Legilimency,” he said softly.

“What?”

“The art of looking into a person’s mind. It is a very advanced skill that most magical folk never even attempt to learn. It is called Legilimency.” 

“Oh—oh, wow. That’s...well, that’s intense.” _I knew it!!_

We were both silent for another long moment.

“I normally don’t mete out punishment like this, but I believe I must make an exception here: I’m going to offer you a deal.”

My eyes widened.

“You are not to tell a soul, student or staff, that you discovered me to be a Legilimens. In exchange, I will only give you detention for one night.”

“What do I have to do?”

“You will sit in this chair and write me an essay detailing all the ways you have been harassed at Hogwarts this year. You will also tell me how you retaliated, and how you wanted to further strike back had you not been stopped. Then—and this is the most important part—you must write about why you enjoy hurting people who cross you. I will be perfectly clear with you, Miss Halaway: there is something inside your mind that troubles me greatly. I have seen such traits in very few students in my many years, and I fear I didn’t do enough to help steer them onto a healthier path. I cannot make that mistake again. And if you do not accept this offer, then yes, I will be forced to expel you. If you ever break this agreement, I will know. The deal will be null and void and you will be banned from Hogwarts immediately. As you are only eleven and academically gifted, I don’t want to have to tarnish your potential for success so early in your schooling. That is why you are here. Now, do we have a deal?”

“Y-yes...I just—”

“It’s a yes or a no, Miss Halaway. No buts. No concessions. No loopholes. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good.”

“When do I write my essay?”

“Right now.”

“Oh! I—okay.”

“You will stay right here until you finish it. That is your detention.” 

_Well, shit. If he can see everything inside my mind and he still wants to vouch for me, I guess I don’t have to hold anything back. I’d clearly face more severe consequences for watering myself down this time. How ironic._

So I wrote my essay. I documented every incident, no matter how small—everything other students had done to me since I arrived at Hogwarts, and how I had fought back. It was surprisingly cathartic. That is, it was cathartic until I got to the third part of the assignment. My propensity for violence was something I had never even spoken about aloud, much less written down. The prospect was terrifying. I sat there, quill hovering over the parchment in my trembling hand, until I reminded myself that not finishing this essay meant expulsion. That was infinitely more terrifying than having my demented thoughts exposed.

My right hand was cramping by the time I finally finished the essay. I had, apparently, been writing for two hours and used up three rolls of parchment. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed to get all of that off my chest! Maybe this was why some people kept journals. I made a mental note to look into that activity at a later date.

I was barely aware of Dumbledore thanking me for being honest with him and dismissing me to my dorm. It was after hours by this time; but the Headmaster assured me that if anyone gave me trouble, I could send them to him.

Apart from the subtle rejection from my Housemates, which was old news, not much changed for the rest of the week. I began feeling a lot more confident, in that I had essentially sent the whole school a message not to mess with me. Being rejected and ignored hurt a lot less than being tripped up or having my birthday ruined in front of hundreds of people.

But it didn’t hurt nearly as much as my parents’ owl expressing fear and outrage over my essay.

Which Dumbledore had sent to them the day after my detention.

My hands shook and my stomach churned as I read the letter my father had penned.

 

_Alexandra,_

_After reading Professor Dumbledore’s letter about your birthday, we have been in a state of shock. I can barely put my thoughts into words, but I will try._

_Your mother spent half the night crying after reading your detention essay. Obviously, we are both sorry for what those girls have done to you—assuming you weren’t exaggerating their transgressions to gain sympathy—but your reactions are beyond overblown. How is it that you are eleven years old and fighting urges to kill people? You are talking about murdering someone’s child! Sibling! Cousin! Friend! You want to destroy families and irrevocably break people’s hearts just because some insecure teenagers were rude to you? Think about that. Really sit with yourself and think about that, Alexandra. Ask yourself if you truly find joy in thinking about orchestrating such horrific events._

_We have requested a conference with Professor Dumbledore. We intend to come to Hogwarts and discuss the issues you are facing so that we can get to the bottom of this. Depending on what the Headmaster says, you will likely see us within the next week. Please try your hardest to stay out of trouble until then. We are very proud that you are at the top of your class, but school is about so much more than academics. To be perfectly frank, we would rather you receive lower grades for a while as you work on learning to conduct yourself in a way that doesn’t attract negative attention and make other children want to target you._

_Remember, we discipline you because we love you and we only want what’s best for you. We are trying to teach you right from wrong so that you can learn to function on your own and live a happy life without our constant guidance. Sometimes we have to implement tough love. If we didn’t care about you, we’d stay out of your life at Hogwarts and ignore you._

_This is just what loving parents do. You are not alone in the world._

_Love,_  
_Mum and Dad_

 

It was only after I lifted my head from the parchment that I realized my Housemates were staring. I had been shaking so much that my breath had grown ragged and I’d caused the parchment to rattle. My face felt hot and I was once again holding back a heavy flood of hot, angry tears. _Would this ever end?!_  

Not caring that my eyes were visibly moist, I jerked my head up and eyed Dumbledore at the staff table. I looked daggers at him, daring him to read my mind and realize what dreadfulness he had put into play. 

 _Look what you’ve done, Professor! Do you feel good now?_ I challenged him inside my head. _Is this how you would have handled your other “troubled” students if you could go back in time?! You think humiliating an eleven-year-old who’s been degraded her entire life makes you some kind of savior?!_

He stared back at me solemnly, clearly having read my thoughts. Though unable to read _his_ thoughts, I could venture a guess. His blue eyes bore the shadows of a deep, dark regret that he would likely never share with me. Or anyone.

I knew that I had to stop my parents from coming to Hogwarts at all costs. An event like that would spread throughout the school, and likely open me up to even more bullying—maybe not to the point that I’d land yet another tormentor in the hospital wing, but I wasn’t willing to risk it. My highest priority was staying out of the spotlight as often as possible in order to protect myself.

I paid attention in all my courses, while formulating a plan in between class periods. By the end of the day, I knew what I had to do.

After dinner that night, I snuck off to the entrance to Professor Dumbledore’s office. I knew the password, having heard him say it on my birthday; nevertheless, he was surprised to see me. He was tending to his pet phoenix when I stepped off the elevator.

“Miss Halaway!” he exclaimed. “What are you—”

“I need to talk to you, sir. I think you know why.” 

His shoulders slumped. “Yes, I knew you would object to me sending your essay to your parents. You must understand that I would have been extremely careless to keep something so monumental from them.”

In response, I thrust my father’s letter into the Headmaster’s hand and looked up at him with as much pain as I could muster.

Dumbledore nodded slowly a few times as he read the disparaging words. I watched him quietly process my father’s emotions until I couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“Headmaster, I appreciate that you took me seriously and saved me from expulsion on my birthday; but I can’t have my parents come here. That...that _doesn’t_ happen. No child is so out of control that their parents have to intervene! This isn’t my fault! The more negative attention I get, the harder it is for me to keep it together. I can’t handle this much scrutiny! Please—you _can’t_ let them come here.” My eyes were slightly moist, but I amped up my display of anguish until a few tears leaked out. 

He watched me gravely. Could he tell I was laying it on thick? I hoped not. I _was_ in pain, anyway. And feeling desperate. How could he fault me for using whatever methods necessary to eliminate further suffering? I clearly wasn’t a Slytherin for nothing—what was that saying? Using any means to achieve their ends? Yeah, that was me, all right. The Sorting Hat knew what it was talking about, after all.

“Sir, _has_ that ever happened before?” I asked softly.

“No. You are correct that such a procedure is unheard of.”

“So...do you think you could owl my parents and tell them not to come? I promise you, that would only make things worse. I’ve been bullied enough to see that some of these kids are just...biding their time, waiting for anything else to use against me. I swear I would never be able to live that down. I don’t go around antagonizing people. I just want to be left alone to study in peace. I really don’t want to make trouble; trouble just keeps finding me. My parents coming here would give the bullies one more barb to throw at me, pointing out how different—and therefore inferior—I am. I can’t have that. I can’t handle any more of this! Please, sir, you have to stop them from coming. _Please.”_  

The Headmaster pressed his lips together as he regarded me with a mixture of sadness and trepidation. I refused to break eye contact. I needed to win.

"I will consider your position, Miss Halaway. In the meantime, please return to your dormitory. And do not make a habit of coming here—it is not appropriate for a student to enter my office without an appointment.” 

“Of course, Professor. I understand. And thank you for listening.” I smiled slightly before turning on my heel and taking my leave. 

A hush fell over the Slytherin common room as the resident human tornado entered the area. I didn’t care. As long as no one was harassing me, I was perfectly fine with my Housemates’ distaste—and, unbeknownst to them, I was quickly developing a sick thrill at their fear of me. I was eleven years old and I already had a reputation as someone not to be crossed. If we kept it that way for the remainder of my Hogwarts education, I’d be golden. I could get through my studies in peace.

To my immense relief, Nicole and Company finally ceased harassing me. My Housemates were still snubbing me—presumably more from fear than disdain—but it didn’t even feel like bullying anymore because I’d endured so much worse. Dumbledore thankfully honored my request and convinced my parents to stay home; so they instead chose to bombard me with letters asking for in-depth updates on my social situation. (Apparently, they were bombarding the Headmaster as well, untill he sent them a polite yet stern note, telling them that they needed to back off. I’d only wished he’d asked them to back off of me as well.) I told them the truth: that my classmates were avoiding me, but the overt harassment had stopped. I insisted that I was thriving and they had nothing to be concerned about; and also that I was now terrified of being punished more severely than everyone else, because it seemed that my teachers were watching me more closely than other kids. I just wanted people to let me breathe. I would be so much more relaxed, and therefore much better behaved, if I had space.

My parents insisted that I needed to be social to some extent, just to learn how to act properly, but they did give a bit around the end of March—the frequency of their owls finally slowed from around three a week to one every other week.

Not having to expend the energy necessary to write my parents often allowed me more room to reflect on my life. I was certainly thriving academically, and had come to something of a truce with my classmates: they didn’t bother me, and I don’t bother them. The arrangement, though rife with tension on all sides, held out for the remainder of the school year. I didn’t give my classmates much thought after we all silently came to this conclusion together.

One area of my life at Hogwarts was still troublesome: I didn’t know what to make of Dumbledore. I felt forever indebted to him because he had defended me when no one else had. Anyone else in his position would surely have expelled me on my birthday; but he had chosen to look inside my mind and stand by me, even after I’d sent two students to the hospital. His version of detention—unlike my parents’ words—had actually _felt_ like tough love. His choice of punishment had clearly come from a place of genuine care and concern, like a grandfather trying to help put a damaged grandchild back together. I thought that an honorable goal. 

However, the Headmaster had also betrayed my trust. He’d told me our deal was private, and immediately turned around and shared my most intimite thoughts with my parents. That was a betrayal. That was sneaky. He had taken advantage of my vulnerability, and I felt violated. I had no idea if he’d initially planned on sending my essay to my parents when he’d decided how to punish me, or if the content had simply disturbed him too much to keep the information to himself. There was no way I could ask; and anyway, doing so wouldn’t change what had happened. 

After ruminating on these events for a while, I realized that I could count on no one but myself. I retreated into myself more and more as term continued, turning to my studies as a distraction and a refuge. I seemed to be the only student excited about choosing my two electives for second year, which we all did shortly before Easter. I picked Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.  

The school year came to a close, and I remained at the top of the class. And I resolved to never let anyone surpass me. If I had to be the least liked, just as I was at home, then I needed to be the best at something else to feel balanced. Maybe, if I shut out my classmates and drowned myself in academics, they would simply leave me alone and let me do my own thing uninterrupted—no harassment, no pranks, no scuffles. Just a case of live and let live.

Packing up my clothes the night before returning home, I grinned at the thought of spending the next six years in this manner...flowing through the student body with ease, since everyone would quickly learn to stay out of my way. As I was already adept at shutting out the world when I needed to regroup, all I had to do was ignore my classmates at all costs, and they’d get the message. 

And then I frowned. I _would_ have to interact with my classmates during group work, which would be torturous if I just sat alone all the time and scowled at anyone who dared to look my way. I would have to continue trying to integrate, as loathe as I was to do it, until I found the balance between authentic behavior and self-preservation. Outside of academics, perfecting this social balancing act would now be my highest priority.

I visualized myself as a competent adult witch—working, paying my own bills, and fooling everyone enough that I could pass as normal—so my parents would stop treating me like a helpless imbecile. That was my end goal. And I knew that, as I grew up, that image would comfort me and urge me not to give up when I was struggling.

This gave me a plan. This gave me an objective. An objective I would achieve no matter what. After everything I had endured thus far, I knew I could handle any other obstacles life threw my way.

Nothing would stop me now.


	5. Tom | 1995

Identity, fantasy, heresy, killing me  
Lower and lower before, this thing to feed  
Hypocrite, lunatic, fanatic, heretic  
More and more you follow your divorced reality 

—Static-X ~ “The Only”

  

Despite the lack of excitement from November of 1994 to February of 1995, between the first and second tasks, the Triwizard Tournament was still the main focus of _The Daily Prophet_ and Draco’s letters to his parents. The boy was obsessed with watching and analyzing the three champions and their schoolmates. Viktor Krum was a god among men, Cedric Diggory was a pansy who let people walk all over him, and the Beauxbatons champion Fleur Delacour was a weakling who had no business competing. 

I couldn’t have cared less.

One thing I did find humorous was Draco’s observation that, though the Tournament was supposed to be a time of excitement, there was a thick cloud of tension and anxiety blanketing Hogwarts. Given the events at the Quidditch World Cup, everyone was speculating over the possibility of my return. (Yes, dear citizens, I’m relaxing at Malfoy Manor. Thank you for your concern.) That was probably why Dumbledore had hired Mad-Eye to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts this year—he wanted someone who had fought on the front lines against Dark magic in case the school required such a battle. I didn’t see a war happening any time soon, but I found it agreeable to work my opponents into a frenzy over nothing. Tired warriors made shoddy warriors. I would build my defenses more slowly this time, so my adversaries would have less stamina when the time to fight actually arrived.

The Order of the Phoenix, however, was not interested in building slowly. The organization wanted to amass as much power as possible, as quickly as possible, in order to defeat me. Not like they ever would, but their efforts were cute.

Auror Nymphadora Tonks, Lupin’s Metamorphagus girlfriend, was quite loud in _The Daily Prophet_ —she spoke to any reporter who asked for an update on the Order’s activities and the size of their forces. Arthur and Molly Weasley were also active in the organization, spurred by the deaths of their two youngest children in the Chamber of Secrets. Though they were anxious about sending their remaining school-age offspring to Hogwarts this term, they knew they couldn’t keep the boys from their education. And, for once, I approved of the family’s decision. (I would’ve loved to have seen one of their older children die competing in the Triwizard tournament, but they weren’t old enough. Oh well.) 

Though I knew they weren’t strong enough to defeat me, the Order certainly was competent. They were rapidly amassing and training a large swath of followers in their fight for justice. Be that as it may, I wondered if these warriers may grow fatigued over time—Remus and Sirius appeared to be acting like personal trainers, overcompensating for their past failures, but no one could be in tiptop shape constantly. Battle fatigue would likely set in at some point, even before true combat became necessary.

Maybe that was where I, too, had gone wrong in the 1970s: I had attempted to make too much happen, too quickly. People notice when their rights are being stripped away out of nowhere, but not when done slowly and with immense subtlety. I was immortal now; what was the rush? I knew what I wanted and I had a place to stay for as long as I needed. If I chose, I could take years to formulate a proper strategy for infiltrating Hogwarts and the Ministry, so that I could one day venture out in the open without fear of being captured and incarcerated. I had felt incarcerated long enough, anyway, after splitting my soul into seven pieces and then nearly dying in my first attempt at killing Harry Potter. Being trapped inside various objects, before Ginny’s life force revived me from my diary, had been maddening. Better than dying, but still maddening. 

Halloween of 1981 was the worst day of my life. Killing Harry’s parents had given me quite a thrill, but I had neglected to factor in the ancient magic Lily wielded by sacrificing herself for her only child: by throwing herself between Harry and me, her love had provided the boy with the ultimate protection. Not even a Killing Curse could destroy him. 

Lily certainly hadn’t wanted to end her life, but had chosen to die in place of her son. I’d initially thought it ridiculous, since I would have allowed her to live if she’d simply stepped aside and let me take what I’d come for—her old friend Severus had begged me to spare her life. And I would have done so had the silly girl simply done as she was told. 

When the Killing Curse I cast on Harry rebounded, it felt like being struck by lightning while the world’s longest, sharpest knife shot straight through my heart and impaled me on its blade before exploding inside my torso. I screamed, but the sound cut short as my body disintegrated. All that was left was an unstable magical force that allowed me to glide through the air and possess the bodies of animals to get around. I thought I would regain my body after acquiring the Sorcerer’s Stone in 1992, but that bloody Potter boy had thwarted me once more. His mother’s protection was still in place, and he instead destroyed the body of my host, Professor Quirrell. Though residing in a diary and all my other Horcruxes for many years was utterly incapacitating, living on the back of Quirrell’s head was worse by far. I had to hear this man’s every word, every move, and every thought for an entire year. He complained about never being alone, and yet he at least had had a body. He was mobile. I, the greatest sorcerer in the world, had been reduced to nothing but a mere parasite, drinking unicorn blood from the back of a man’s head to stay alive.

At least I had my body back now. And Merlin, did I look good. 

*   *   * 

One morning in mid-January, I had just gotten out of the shower when I heard a knock on my bedroom door.

“Who is it?” I called out, wrapping a towel around my waist. 

“It’s Bella, my Lord,” the witch replied softly. 

_Ahh, I know that voice she’s using. It’s been quite a while since I’ve heard her talk like that—all soft and sultry. And she thinks I don’t know what she’s doing._

I opened the door and regarded her. She made no attempt to conceal the hunger in her eyes.

“Do you need something, dear?” I asked with a smirk. 

“Yes.” 

“Care to elaborate?” 

“May I come in?”

 _It’s certainly been a while. Why not._ I ushered her inside, cast a Silencing spell around the room, and shoved her up against the door.

“You’ve wanted this from the moment you saw me here, haven’t you,” I purred in her ear. 

“Yes, my Lord, I— _mmmm,”_ she sighed as I kissed her slowly. Guiding her away from the door, I pushed her onto the bed and tossed my towel onto the ground. She bit her lip as she looked me up and down once more, unfastening her robes as quickly as her trembling hands would allow.

And so commenced a half hour of bed-rocking action that left both of us sweating and smiling.

All while Rodolphus was relaxing in the parlor. Still as clueless as ever, he was. 

 _Well, that was delightful,_ I thought as Bellatrix dressed and slipped out of my room. Years in Azkaban had taken their toll, but she still looked decent. However, I found it a bit odd that, with her being in her late forties, I now appeared less than half her age and she still wanted to jump into bed with me. Didn’t she find it awkward? I wasn’t exactly opposed to the activity, but I had wondered if she might lose interest when she saw that I looked young enough to be her son. 

_Bellatrix having a son. That’s a scary thought._

Was she still in love with me, or had our little romp come from a place of long-buried revenge? Having spent so much time incarcerated, I figured that a trivial issue like a straying husband would dull in importance to her over time. I hadn’t bothered using Legilimency while inside her, but I surely would next time. There would most certainly be a next time, considering the look on her face just before she exited my bedroom to rejoin her family in the parlor.

Even though the Lestranges were no longer living here, they still visited frequently. Which meant Bellatrix would likely be in my bedroom frequently. Yes, this would most assuredly be an interesting experiment. The woman hero-worshipped me and felt a sense of pride in having had intimate relations with me, even though the activity was nothing more to me than a physical release. 

Bellatrix certainly had found me attractive at the start of our affair many years ago, but I wasn’t sure if her affection alone had been enough of a motivation to cheat on Rodolphus. I didn’t care either way, as I still had a willing female in bed with me. She later told me that Rodolphus had betrayed her first and she’d simply wanted to get back at him.

It wasn’t my fault that she’d fallen in love with me in the process. I didn’t seduce her. I didn’t coerce her into our little clandestine arrangement; she’d just wanted to smite her husband. Falling for me had been an unintended consequence. 

Perhaps it was the fact that I, an immensely powerful wizard, patiently taught her all about Dark magic and then welcomed her into my bed. Perhaps it was the way I listened while she babbled on and on about the werewolf Rodolphus was seeing. I wasn’t sure. Either way, I would never object to a nice shag with a pretty lady now and again, married or not. She came on to me, anyway.

I didn’t think Rodolphus was still carrying on with the lady wolf, as he hadn’t been out of Azkaban very long and didn’t seem to be engaging with others outside of my assignments. Be that as it may, Bellatrix was still suspicious. Before their incarceration, there had never been any concrete proof that Rodolphus had conceived an illegitmate child with his lycan lover, but there had been whispers—the name Madeleine Lestrange had begun surfacing in high-society gossip in early 1981. Those rumors still persisted today, now growing louder than they’d been in years past, with the Lestranges broken out of Azkaban.

It turned out that Bellatrix’s suspicions were correct. She came back to my bed during a family visit a few weeks later, after which she told me that Rodolphus had finally confessed all: yes, Madeleine was his. The child, now fourteen, had been shunned by her mother’s werewolf clan for being a witch, and by the Lestranges for being born to a shapeshifter—and an illegitimate child as well. In the Lestranges’ eyes, Madeleine was not “pure” enough to deserve their protection.

The homeless girl had been following her mother’s clan the entire time the Lestranges were incarcerated, begging to be accepted, only to be bitten and turned into a werewolf by the very mother who should have protected her. In retaliation for turning her, Madeleine had murdered her mother with her bare hands—well, bare claws and fangs was more like it—at the tender age of ten. And how did Rodolphus know all this? Where was the child now? 

In the Lestranges’ abandoned house, of course! 

She had nowhere else to stay, and had written to Rodolphus to ask for lodging just two days prior, upon hearing that he’d broken out of prison.

He was in a conundrum. He’d initially considered hiding this news from his wife, but she had found the letter and demanded answers. After two days of stewing on her rage, Bellatrix had come here to vent to her sister and me. I told her I didn’t know enough about the child to have any concrete feelings about her, so she flounced over to Narcissa and began screaming. I didn’t need to be in the room to hear the entire conversation. 

“Rodolphus wants us to house this abomination!” she shouted. “Can you believe it, Cissy?! I slapped him. I should have done more! How dare he conceive a child with another woman—and a WEREWOLF! I don’t _care_ that she’s a Pureblood! That’s _disgusting!_ That’s like mating with a Muggle! I don’t understand...I can’t figure out why....”

“I don’t know, Bella,” Narcissa sighed. “And, if you haven’t noticed, the Dark Lord has always recruited werewolves. You have yet to object on that front. You’ve never had a problem with Greyback, have you? You’ve never complained about working with him.” 

“Oh, but that’s _different!”_ Bellatrix whined. “Conversing with a lycan who shares my views isn’t the same as _mating_ with one! For Merlin’s sake, Narcissa, how could you even—”

“Did Rodolphus ask your opinion, or tell you the child will be coming to stay?” 

“IF HE JUST INVITED HER OVER, I WOULD KILL THEM BOTH!” 

“Bellatrix, I was merely asking. Please lower your voice; it’s echoing off the walls and hurting my ears. Do you want the Dark Lord to hear you ranting and raving like this? And given the subject matter—”

“I ALREADY TOLD HIM! I DON’T CARE IF HE HEARS ME NOW! IT’S AN OUTRAGE, CISSY! AN OUTRAGE!”

Their argument continued for a solid thirty minutes.

The gist of it was that Narcissa frowned upon her brother-in-law’s philandering; but as a mother, she was concerned about the child’s predicament. And Bellatrix was absolutely irate over Narcissa’s feelings. Mrs. Malfoy wisely allowed her sister to finish ranting and then make her own decision about the child, which was that she’d be forbidden from entering the Lestrange household. I was not surprised. 

Bellatrix returned to Malfoy Manor a week later to tell us that, though she had watched Rodolphus write and owl his response to Madeleine, telling her not to contact him again, she had still done so. But it was with some surprising news. Given that she was now officially rejected from both sides of her family, she had opted to change her name to reflect her independence. She signed her letter not Madeleine Lestrange, but Mimevas Lemqi, a name of her own invention.

Rodolphus appeared conflicted—the girl was his own flesh and blood, and had been forced to live in an abandoned house just for shelter; but she was also a werewolf and therefore not fit to associate with the noble Lestrange family. Bellatrix told me that, after they’d read the letter, Rodolphus had crumpled up the parchment and thrown it into the fireplace. He promised her that he would never contact Madeleine, now Mimevas, ever again. 

I wasn’t opposed to the concept of a werewolf in the vicinity—as Narcissa had noted, I’d already recruited one Fenrir Greyback, after all—and I was intrigued by this girl Mimevas. At the age of ten, she’d already possessed the brutality to murder her own mother and feel not an ounce of remorse. Someone like that could definitely become a Death Eater one day. I decided to seek out this girl when she was of age and see if she’d mastered the restraint required to control her primal urges.

And if the Lestranges objected, that was their problem to discuss amongst themselves. I wanted no part of it.

*   *   * 

Unbeknownst to her, dear Bellatrix was helping me in and out of the bedroom. I began using Legilimency on her once I’d told all my Death Eaters that I planned to build my empire more slowly this time, because I was curious about her thoughts on the issue. Some of the ranks were frustrated, as they wanted any excuse to burn and pillage, but I told them that I would not repeat 1981. I had been careless with Harry Potter. I had been too eager to vanquish my enemy, and worked overtime from a one-track mind, instead of carefully examining my surroundings to plan for every possible outcome, like I should have done. Like I was doing now.

I thought long and hard about this issue. What would I do? How much could I infiltrate the British Wizarding government to achieve my goals? How much would I _have_ to infiltrate the power structure? It wasn’t governmental power I was after, anyway—having that power would simply allow me to move freely and do as I pleased. I had no interest in being the Minister of Magic; but I would need to plant my own high-ranking officials, if not a Minister, if I were to feel truly safe and comfortable being out in the open. 

After countless hours mulling the problem over in my mind, by myself and in meetings, I slowly began to piece my plans together. I realized that I would need to have my Ministry-employed Death Eaters groom existing officials for some time, so that they wouldn’t realize how deeply they were being manipulated to do my bidding. This control would gradually ripple outward through the altering of laws and media influence, extending to everyday citizens—these people would begin acting in ways that they ordinarily wouldn’t, because they’d feel the need to guard themselves in the unstable environment I would create.

As I explained the psychological weapons I would be wielding over the masses, a debate ensued about employing a slow approach instead of a fast one. In response, I asked my followers how they would react to a sweeping new law restricting their freedom vs. a series of small, seemingly innocuous laws passed over the course of several years, made in the name of protecting citizens’ safety. 

They didn’t know that Bellatrix had been thinking along those lines for weeks. And I never told her that I knew this. I knew she saw my bedding her as a source of pride and status. I didn’t mind that terribly, but I didn’t want her to think _too_ highly of herself. She was my servant, not my equal. I had no equals. And that would never change. 

Assuming Bellatrix secretly wanted to divorce Rodolphus and marry me, she wouldn’t just want my adoration; she’d probably want more power than she had now so that she could feel more on par with me. Not that I ever would marry her—or any witch, for that matter—but I would never share my power with anyone. The concept was preposterous.

Be that as it may, I did value Bellatrix’s opinion highly. She was smart, talented, and she enjoyed serving me more than any other Death Eater. She was constantly thinking up new ways for me to gain power and influence in the Wizarding world, some of which weren’t half bad. The slow-and-steady approach was one of them. 

We began implementing the gradual takeover with Lucius. As an esteemed Ministry worker with Cornelius Fudge in his back pocket, the elder Malfoy began dropping hints to Fudge about changes the Ministry could implement to protect the Magical world from Muggle infiltration. I didn’t expect this to work overnight: though Fudge certainly favored Purebloods, he wasn’t an outright supremecist like the Malfoys and the Lestranges. Lucius would need to groom the Minister for months, possibly years, before he could control the man as much as I desired. I would not be the center of attention with such matters—I was merely the puppetmaster pulling the strings. My Death Eaters were the loyal puppets, jumping when I told them to jump and acting the way I told them to act. Whether they wanted to or not was irrelevant; they knew they would die if they defied my orders.

I had certainly been hasty during my first reign of power. I had stormed ahead, destroying every obstacle in my path, not once considering that one of those roadblocks could fight back. Harry Potter had been that rude awakening. Being older and more experienced allowed me to slow down, and think about what I was doing and why.

Plus, being immortal meant that I had, quite literally, all the time in the world. I wasn’t in a race to beat time anymore. I had a place to stay and next to no chance of being discovered. What was the rush? I was already halfway to achieving everything I wanted in life. If gaining all the power I wanted took several years, so what? I knew I would one day earn everything I desired. However long it took, it would be worth the wait. 

And speaking of waiting, Wormtail was likely twiddling his thumbs and waiting for me to rescue him. I still hadn’t figured out if I would break him out of Azkaban yet. Seeing as he had only returned to me out of fear, he didn’t deserve to have me rushing to his aid, the way I had done with Bellatrix and the others. He could hold out a bit longer, surely.

*   *   *

The concept of the Triwizard Tournament’s second task amused me. The champions had to find a way to breathe underwater for an hour, for the purpose of retrieving their greatest treasures from the bottom of the Black Lake. It wasn’t merely the ways I imagined students drowning or being murdered by sea creatures that I found entertaining—it was their greatest treasures.

People. The people at Hogwarts whom they loved the most. 

I couldn’t understand how a human being could be so important to someone that they would be considered a _treasure._ Wasn’t the term a bit dramatic? People were replaceable. I had yet to meet anyone important enough that I would call them a _treasure._ Had I been a Triwizard champion, my _treasure_ would have been one of my Horcruxes. What could I possibly value more than the pieces of my soul? I could never imagine being that attached to a human being. Strange creatures, they were—the normal ones. I was so glad I was better than that.

*   *   * 

An unexpected sliver of juicy gossip wafted into Malfoy Manor in mid-April: Severus Snape was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. I knew he had turned spy after I’d killed Harry’s parents, but I was never sure what side he was really on because he was a highly skilled Occlumens. Though an admirable servant whom I trusted with many difficult assignments, I would never have complete faith in him unless he gave me a reason. Hearing that he was this deeply entrenched with my opponents set my teeth on edge—more so because I didn’t know if it was true, or if he was merely positioning himself as such to gain inside information. I had to find out. Dumbledore may not have been certain of Snape’s loyalties, but I would not sit on my hands and wait for an answer.

I decided not to approach Snape about the issue directly at first. I would vaguely mention past turncoats in meetings, and then allude to the possibility of one in our midst. I would observe Snape’s mannerisms—Merlin, I’d observe _everyone’s_ mannerisms and see if there were any other guilty parties.

“I have heard rumors of traitors amongst us,” I announced at the next Death Eater meeting. “If someone at this table displeases me, they will be dealt with appropriately. I don’t need to remind you all of what became of the elder Mulciber—should one of you betray me, my dear Nagini won’t have to worry about hunting for her next meal.”

While almost everyone else at the table looked like they were trying not to wet themselves, the Hogwarts potions master remained stony-faced. As usual. Though always respectful, the man often addressed me as if we were opponents in a game of cards. I never knew exactly what was in his hand—or his head. 

I put down a card: initiating him as a Death Eater and forcing him to swear unfailing loyalty to me until his death.

Snape put down a card: begging me to spare Lily Potter’s life when he knew I was targeting the family.

I agreed to spare the girl, but changed my mind when she wouldn’t back away from her son.

Snape made me suspicious of his loyalties after I killed his silly little crush, but he returned before almost anyone else after my long absence.

I instructed Snape to keep an eye on Karkaroff, as they were both at Hogwarts now.

Snape once again aroused my suspicions by joining the Order of the Phoenix.

And I threatened his life in front of everyone.

I would have the last laugh. I was sure of it. Nagini circled the table several times as I made my threats, hissing loudly for emphasis. I couldn’t spot any guilty faces—everyone at the table was simply trying their hardest not to look as terrified as they felt. Not like I’d never seen _that_ before.

As little as I thought of some of my followers, given that their desire to join my ranks came from a need for approval instead of loyalty to my cause, I was rather impressed with Severus Snape. He was level-headed, ruthless, and positively brilliant; and he never let his emotions cloud his judgment—I’d overlooked his softness for Lily Potter because his strengths outweighed that one sore spot.

He’d come to me with news of the prophecy about the Potter boy immediately after having overheard it. Surely, he’d worked only for me back then, or he would not have been so forthcoming with such information. Now, however, I needed to keep a closer watch on the man. He was living and teaching at Hogwarts, and in close proximity to Dumbledore. He would need to prove that he was only in the Order to pass sensitive information to me. He would die otherwise. 

I let him ruminate on my warning until after the following meeting, when I pulled him aside as everyone was leaving.

“Severus, a moment please,” I drawled.

“Yes, my Lord?” 

“I heard some news of your activities outside these walls recently. News involving...conflicting loyalties. Do I have any reason to be concerned?”

Nagini began circling Snape, who pretended he couldn’t see.

“Of course not, my Lord. My loyalties are with you, and you alone.” 

“So I should assume that any news I hear of your activities—” 

Nagini hissed loudly and inclined her head toward Snape’s robes. He jumped ever so slightly.

“—within the Order of the Phoenix are strictly to gain information on our opponents?” 

“Yes, of course.” He didn’t even bat an eye.

We stared at each other for a long time. He was the perfect picture of calm sincerity, and I was suspicion personified. I wondered if I should simply relax and trust in his loyalty, given his prior actions.

“Then why didn’t you inform me of your decision, making me wait to hear of it through _gossip?”_ I spat. “What are you concealing from me, Severus?”

“I conceal nothing, my Lord. I was planning to tell you—” 

“Tell me _when?_ I had to ask you to stay behind after the meeting. What in Merlin’s name were you waiting for?!”

“The proper moment, when no one could overhear. It didn’t seem appropriate for this meeting, given the content of our discussion. I hadn’t even been sure if I should join the Order, or if would have looked too suspicious, but Dumbledore insisted. He still thinks I’m on his side. I feigned guilt and told him I didn’t think I had the right to join the Order, given my prior activities as a Death Eater.”

“And when did you expect this _proper moment_ to arrive?”

“Within the week, more than likely. I wasn’t sure if the Order would even allow me to stay; I wanted to make sure I had solidified my membership. I figure that will happen before the end of this week.” Still as calm and cool as ever, his baritone voice quiet and smooth. No hesitation, no fear, no regret. Maybe he _was_ telling the truth.

“And what have you learned of the Order’s activitie thus far?” 

“They are currently searching Hogwarts and the Ministry for anyone we may have planted there. They are mildly suspicious of Lucius Malfoy, but unable to prove anything. And, of course, they are doing everything they can to determine your whereabouts.” 

“Are they anywhere near a solution?”

“No, my Lord. They haven’t the slightest clue of where to start. They’re still not even sure you’re alive. I have offered false trails to send them on a wild goose chase; and, should they discover that you’re alive, I will do everything in my power to stop them from suspecting Malfoy Manor as your current residence.”

“I’d expect nothing less. You will report all Order activities to me with each new development, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. No more waiting until a _proper moment._ Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord. My loyalties are only with you.”

“As the should be. Need I remind you—” I paused as Nagini lunged and tore a shred of fabric from Snape’s robes. Now he jumped for real. “—of what will happen if I learn that you have been lying to me?” I stepped in close and sneered at him, making sure he could hear my breathing. His face never even twitched.

“Of course, my Lord. I understand. I am sorry if I have offended you or aroused your suspicions.”

“Good. I will be watching you, Severus. Know this. One foot out of line, and I will make you wish I had resurrected Lily and killed her a second time. In front of you. That gesture would be mild compared to what I have planned, should you ever betray me.” 

Snape nodded and swept out of the room. His shoulders slumped as he slowly descended the stairs. I wondered if that was from fear, despair, or relief. Or a mixture of all three. A complicated and unique man, he was. I would definitely need to keep an eye on him. 

*   *   *

The third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament was quickly approaching. A few weeks before the event, I gave Snape and Barty Crouch Jr. a unique assignment to further rile up the citizenry and make them wonder if I was regaining power: Snape was to sneak Junior onto Hogwarts grounds to kill his father. Like the Death Eaters’ actions at the Quidditch World Cup, the murder of Barty Crouch Sr. would send a compelling message. Everyone knew that Junior had broken out of prison, and his father had been the one to send him there. No one else would want dear old Bartemius dead but his errant son. 

Snape brewed two potions for the event: a batch of Polyjuice Potion for Barty so that he could assume the form of Mad-Eye Moody before escorting him onto Hogwarts grounds; and a delayed-action dreamless sleep potion for the real Moody, to be delivered at dinnertime. Junior would have to act at night, when the real Mad-Eye would be sleeping and therefore unable to blow our cover. 

Snape stole into Moody’s bedroom after dinner on the night in question and combed the area for some of his hair—and given that the man shed like a border collie, according to Snape’s observations, collecting a few strands wasn’t too difficult. He brought the hair back to his office, where the otherwise-completed Polyjuice sat, and finished brewing the potion. Slipping the drugged goblet to Moody during dinner proved surprisingly easy; after that, it was simply a matter of going through the motions for a few more hours. After returning to Moody’s room to find him fast asleep, Snape stole the man’s enchanted eye for Crouch to wear upon transforming. Snape then left for Hogsmeade to meet Junior. I gave Barty strict instructions to return and tell me everything that happened, as Snape would obviously have to stay at Hogwarts until the next Death Eater meeting. 

The night turned out to be quite eventful.

Snape met with “Moody” in Hogsmeade and they oh-so-casually dropped by the Hog’s Head for a pint. Since Moody didn’t drink alcohol, Crouch Jr. had to content himself with a tall glass of water. After making small talk for the public, having a conversation they’d rehearsed several times, the two men sauntered away to Hogwarts to play at retiring for the night. Snape was not allowed to accompany Junior on his assignment; he could be implicated in the murder otherwise. He needed to remain at Hogwarts and stay in his room until the morning. All he could do from this point on was tell Junior where his father’s room was located.

Barty had hoped to reach his father’s room without incident, but that was not to be. He had to first send a wandering Draco Malfoy back to his dorm, deducting ten points from Slytherin in the process. (He didn’t sneak into the Great Hall to see if the points had actually decreased, but that was a minor detail easily overlooked.) 

The sound of him shouting at young Malfoy caught the attention of the Prefect on patrol duty.

“Professor! Professor!” gushed the boy in a self-important tone. “I am _so_ sorry I missed that! Where was the misbehaving student? If you’d like me to follow him, I would be  _more_ than happy to—”

“That’s _quite_ enough, young man,” Crouch-Moody barked, trying to hide the fact that he didn’t know the boy’s name. “I get your point. I took care of Malfoy. Return to your duties.”

“Of course, Professor! So sorry to bother you. Would you—do you need anything? Would you like me to escort you back to your—” 

“I’m _fine_ , boy. Run along now.” Crouch stomped away from the crestfallen Prefect, realizing that he would need to walk in the direction of Mad-Eye’s room in order to appear genuine—especially since the people-pleasing student followed Crouch at a distance for a while, hoping for his approval.

He had barely shaken off the boy when the real Mad-Eye woke from a nightmare and began shrieking, his terror compounded by the absence of his magic eye. The sound was loud enough to rouse Snape, whose room was very close to his. Though he had also been sleeping, he’d had the sense to rush into the distressed man’s room and Obliviate him. The Potions Master had been mortified upon discovering that Moody’s nightmare had surpassed the powers of the dreamless sleep potion, but he hadn’t had time to ponder the situation—thankfully, he’d brewed a second batch for backup, and poured it down the disoriented Moody’s throat before he could wake anyone else. By this point, Snape became too paranoid to leave Moody alone, so he stayed in a corner of the bedroom until Junior returned with Moody’s eye. Snape told me that he’d spent the next half hour feeling quite tense, but he took comfort in the knowledge that no one had seen him sneak into Moody’s room.

Junior, in the meantime, had slipped into the shadows upon hearing the screams. He didn’t dare move until the halls were quiet once again; he estimated having spent about fifteen minutes hiding from any potential witnesses before finally feeling safe going to his father’s bedchamber. The elder Crouch had slept through Moody’s screams, as his bedroom was on another floor of the castle, and so he was still asleep when his son finally entered the room and cast a Silencing spell. 

I didn’t care for the particulars of this last conversation between father and son, but Crouch Jr. insisted on giving me all the details. I suppose he’d wanted bragging rights. I allowed it. The exchange had gone as follows:

“CROUCH!” his son bellowed from his bedside.

The man jolted awake and gasped at the sight of his “colleague” towering over him, face contorted in fury.

“Time to wake up for the last time, Bartemius!” 

“Wh—Alastor, you’re barking! What on Earth are you doing in here?!”

“What were _you_ doing sending your own son to Azkaban?” Junior’s signature tongue flicker gave him away, and his father bolted out of bed. 

“NO! It can’t be. It just _can’t_ be!” he stammered, frantically untangling himself from his blanket and groping for his wand. He tripped over himself in the process, and his son grabbed it as he tumbled to the floor. “Alastor! Are you—? You’re not—no, you’re _not_ Alastor!” 

“A brilliant man you are, _Father._ You sent me away to die, so it’s only fair that I return the favor. Tell me, how does it feel to see me?” He stepped back and began twirling his father’s wand in his hand. 

“How did you even get in here—and out of Azkaban?! And what have you done with Alastor?!”

“Have no fear; the batty old codger is safe in his bed and I will be returning his special eye once I’m done here. He has no idea what’s happening right now. I must say, Father, it takes some getting used to, but I can see _behind_ me if I want. Imagine that!” 

“B-Barty?! You’re mad! What do you want?”

“Your life. You stole years of mine—” 

“I stole  _nothing_ from you, Barty! You committed a heinous crime! You needed to face the consequences of your actions, like anyone else! You want to talk about stealing from someone? You became a Death Eater! A _criminal!_ You and your lawless friends robbed a baby boy of his parents and their sanity, and now he’s a miserable child being raised by his grandmother! How could I have let you walk free?! The evidence against you was overwhelming!”

“Being a Death Eater is an HONOR, you foolish old man! I am not a common criminal! Lord Voldemort has risen again, and anyone opposing him will die. Starting with you. You don’t get to destroy over a decade of my life and get away unscathed! Tonight, you die!” 

“Barty, let’s just talk for a moment! _Please!_ You can’t—”

“I have dreamed of this moment for years! Incarceration gave me _lots_ of free time!!”

The elder Crouch lunged forward to try and retrieve his wand, but his son was too quick.

“The time for talking is over, Daddy Dearest!” he proclaimed. _“Avada Kedavra!”_

After his father dropped to the floor, Junior blasted the man’s wand to smithereens before hurling some of the pieces on top of his body.

“That’s what happens when you anger the Death Eaters,” he growled before turning on his heel and leaving the room. He removed the Silencing spell and then quickly rejoined Snape in the real Moody’s bedroom. The professor was still fast asleep. After Junior reattached Moody’s enchanted eye, he and Snape parted ways. Junior then cast a Disillusionment charm on himself and returned to Malfoy Manor. 

I was impressed. I congratulated both men on a job well done, and we all gleefully read the ensuing _Daily Prophet_ article about the mysterious death at Hogwarts a few days later. Crouch’s murder had the desired effect: speculation on the killer, motive, and whether or not my forces were rising once again, but with no concrete evidence in either direction. I had everyone exactly where I wanted them. Patience certainly was a virtue. 

I would have raised everyone’s stress levels even further, had I any control over the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. I wondered how Crouch Sr. and his cohorts had come up with the ideas for each task—not that I could ask him about it.

For the third task, a maze had been constructed on the outskirts of Hogwarts grounds, replete with strategically-placed obstacles to prevent the champions from reaching the Triwizard Cup easily. As I read the _Prophet_ article detailing the events the following day, I amused myself with thoughts of the impossibly dangerous obstacles I would have snuck into the maze if I could have done so. Maybe Cedric Diggory would have had his foot cut off if he’d stepped on a nearly-invisible knife hovering a few inches above the ground! Perhaps Fleur Delacour would leave the maze so disoriented and mentally traumatized, she would never be the same. Or maybe Viktor Krum would have to promise to become a Death Eater before being permitted to leave the maze, much less touch the Cup, otherwise he would die.

It turns out that the Hogwarts champion, Cedric Diggory, did perish in the maze. According to _The Daily Prophet,_ he got into a scuffle with Fleur Delacour and the two ended up crashing into a bewitched wall of vines. Cedric had gone down first, strangled by an angry vine before he’d had a chance to reach his wand, and another gnarly branch whacked Fleur in the head and knocked her unconscious. She would have also died, had Viktor Krum not found her just as the vines were pulling her underground. Ever the gentleman, he sent up an alarm with his wand to alert the professors.

Krum not only won the Triwizard Tournament, but he also earned a hearty congratulations for saving his opponent. Draco was practically drooling over Viktor by this time, and all the Durmstrang students were celebrating. Yes, yes, what a wonderful boy he was.

As the Tournament was now over, the Durmstrangs would soon be returning to Bulgaria. Well, not all of them—the traitor Karkaroff still needed to be dealt with. Word got out that he had fled Hogwarts without a word. No one knew why, except me: I had summoned him the day after the third task, just to see if he would come. He didn’t. I sent Bellatrix and Rodolphus to search for him, after which they alerted me to his hiding place in northern Scotland. I Apparated there and killed him, but not with a simple Killing Curse: I cast the Imperius curse and forced him to sever his own legs with a butcher knife. I made sure to stand back about twenty feet while he was doing this, so as not to be sprayed with blood. Mulciber had given me enough of a carmine shower and I was not interested in repeating the experience.

After Karkaroff’s twitching body bled out, I walked over to him and rolled up his left sleeve to expose his Dark Mark. Surely, whoever found his body would add to the speculations of the already-terrified citizenry over my whereabouts. I’d leave them to continue chasing their tails while I spent the next few months on more magic experimentation in the Malfoys’ backyard.

So far, 1995 had been a very productive year. I intended to keep that momentum going—after unwinding over the summer, of course. 

*   *   * 

Margo began her first year at Hogwarts in September. If she’d been born any earlier, she would have waited a year, but Dumbledore had recently changed the rule about the age of students admitted to Hogwarts: instead of waiting until a child turned eleven before they received their Hogwarts letter, they would receive it prior to the beginning of the school year in which they would turn eleven. And since Margo would turn eleven in January of 1996, she began her schooling in September 1995. She was, unsurprisingly, sorted into Slytherin like every Malfoy before her, but she didn’t sit with Draco at their House table. He was incensed by this, and nearly made a scene before she reminded him that he was now a fifth-year and a Prefect...meaning he had to exhibit exemplary behavior or face harsh consequences. That shut him up. 

I found it interesting to witness the difference in Margo’s behavior to Draco’s once she left. While Draco continued to write home often, Margo wrote to Lucius and Narcissa maybe once a month. She settled in admirably well and didn’t need the security of constant communication with her parental figures. Since she was so mature for her age, some of the friends she made were older—her new best friend Lulu Gilmore was a third-year Slytherin. Lulu and her friends quickly realized that Margo was ahead of the curve and welcomed her into their little group with open arms.

Margo did make friends with a few other first-year Slytherin girls named Sheena Cobblepot, Kaye Chicklepea—who went by Chicky for short, and Sofia Brightwell. They also became friendly with Lulu’s group. Margo told us that this large band of students did everything together outside of classes. (Narcissa also suspected that Margo was developing a crush on a sixth-year boy named Sinjin Montecore; but the girl vehemently denied it and immediately ceased discussing him in her letters, once Narcissa posed the question. Sinjin, one of Lulu’s best friends, was apparently dating a gorgeous brunette named Snappette Shadowstar, and Margo didn’t want to make herself look ridiculous in front of the pair.)

Unlike Draco’s prior ramblings, I became heavily invested in Margo’s letters. They were the closest I could get to actually being at Hogwarts since, unlike her bratty cousin once removed, she was level-headed and observant enough to report accurately on what happened at school. I instructed Lucius that he needed to make her write home more often. Since Margo was a more reliable source of information, I didn’t care so much for Draco’s letters anymore.

That is, until late September, when he began writing about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. 

Moody had resigned at the end of the previous school year, having seen enough violence and death from the Triwizard Tournament—he’d wanted to escape such events after relinquishing his employment as an Auror, and found himself quite distressed that he had not enjoyed his teaching post as much as he’d hoped. His replacement was a peculiar choice: a former high-ranking Ministry official named Dolores Umbridge.

I found it surprising that Dumbledore had hired someone from the Ministry, seeing as he was constantly fielding Fudge’s suspicions of a (non-existent) secret plot to take over the Ministry, but Dumbledore didn’t have much choice. No one else wanted the job. Being close to Fudge, Lucius had heard the Minister’s paranoid ramblings for quite some time and long ago realized that the man’s rants had no traction; however, as a professional brown-noser, Malfoy patiently listened to everything his boss had to say. And relayed it all to me.

From the looks of it, the Minister had planted Umbridge at Hogwarts in response to rising suspicions that I had returned from the not-quite-dead. Dumbledore had urged Fudge to alert the Wizarding world to the possibility, just in case they needed to prepare for battle, but Fudge insisted that the Headmaster was lying and only trying to sieze his job. He claimed that there was no way I could have returned, and everything Dumbledore said on the subject came from his desire for Fudge’s power. This was, of course, a falsehood. And even though no one could prove anything one way or another, Fudge’s paranoia over the matter was crushing his ability to think clearly. Instead of trying to find out if I really was alive, he took the coward’s way out and planted Umbridge at Hogwarts to silence any voices who entertained the possibility of my return. This woman Umbridge didn’t seem to have any strong views on the subject; she was simply a chameleon who strove to be on the winning side of any battle. In this case, she believed that Fudge’s smear campaign would prevail, so she took the cursed teaching position at Hogwarts. Fudge named her both professor and Hogwarts High Inquisitor—whatever that was supposed to mean. 

Umbridge’s curriculum consisted of attempting to brainwash students into thinking that there was no need to defend oneself from the Dark Arts because they simply did not exist. Draco told us that all they really did in her class was copy Ministry-approved texts and write essays on the subject matter. That didn’t bother him, as he knew he was on the side of the Dark Arts. What _did_ bother him was the rumor of a secret organization of students resisting Umbridge’s stifling lesson plans, and doing so in Dumbledore’s name. Students were whispering that Hermione Granger was trying to further avenge her best friends’ deaths by building an army of students who would one day be willing and able to fight the Ministry. And me. As the brightest witch in the fifth year, Hermione was undoubtedly more advanced than all the other students and was likely teaching her peers spells and enchantments used in battle. 

After reading _that_ , I started paying attention. Draco finally had something valuable to say.

He began watching Hermione and her cronies closely, and noted that much was happening outside the fifth-year bubble as well. Some students, older and younger, were determined to join the Order of the Phoenix when they were of age; while others remained ambivalent to the tension in the air over my whereabouts. Some even went so far as to say that they’d be curious to see what would happen if I returned, but they wouldn’t oppose me if I did. Students fought over this, and many friendships were lost. Professors were breaking up duels in the hallway with a much greater frequency than normal. Margo detailed all of this in her letters as well, including the names of students who were especially vocal in their opposition to my cause. If they ever joined the fight against me, I would be sure to have them killed. 

It didn’t take long for Umbridge to get a whiff of the rumors. In retaliation, she formed an organization called The Inquisitorial Squad to essentially spy on other students for her. She promised extra credit and a shiny badge to all who joined. Draco and his goons were the first to sign up. Not surprisingly, almost all the students on the Squad were bitter Slytherins who wanted to get back at the goody-two-shoes students from other Houses who aimed to rise up and fight me. Draco began boasting even more dramatically after this, as if being on Umbridge’s Tattletale Team was the same as being a Death Eater. 

Yes, he was standing up against Dumbledore’s beliefs. Yes, he was ever so slightly closer to Ministry approval by kissing up to Umbridge. But that in no way mirrored the responsibilities my Death Eaters shouldered.

I decided that if this boy didn’t quit his unwarranted bragging, I would take him completely by surprise and initiate him while he was still a child. Then we’d see how long he’d last. Of course the poor boy had no clue that Lord Voldemort was reading his letters and judging him harshly for the content, but I deemed it important to know exactly what kind of person Draco was becoming. Even if he were to learn Occlumency, he wouldn’t be able to hide his true nature after years of my reading his letters. With the way he acted now, I could destroy his mind and have him begging for death within minutes.

Would he ever grow a spine and rise to the task? Only time would tell. In the meantime, I would continue to laugh privately as his character-damning missives piled up. And hope that Umbridge succeeded in usurping Dumbledore’s authority over Hogwarts. 

In the midst of the Umbridge upheaval, Margo told us that some older students were loudly bragging about their desire to become Aurors and join the Order of the Phoenix—and I, of course, requested their names—but not much else happened at Hogwarts for the next couple of months. A lull descended upon Malfoy Manor, which I hoped would remain and therefore make staying there permanently a much easier solution. But it was a deceptive tranquility that was doomed to explode on Christmas Day. 

The ensuing fracas would force me to reevaluate my priorities.

*   *   * 

Draco and Margo returned for the holidays without much fuss. They sat together on the Hogwarts Express, but barely talked—their relationship was still as strained as ever, and Margo was beginning to find her voice. Not that she enjoyed using it that much around Draco. This unnerved him. He was accustomed to impressing and intimidating every child around him, and he now faced a constant reminder that his performance was just that: a performance. And Margo had finally had enough.

About halfway through Christmas dinner, Draco began subtly bragging about how _Malfoy family duties_ weren’t as difficult as his parents had insinuated, and he was sure he would perform wonderfully with minimal effort. We all knew what that meant: Draco was imagining becoming a Death Eater. But he was too afraid to just come out and say it because deep down, the prospect terrified him. He feared that I would be initiating him sooner rather than later. Despite this, he wanted us all to think that he was feeling smug instead. Now, I had not yet allowed him a seat at the meeting table, but he somehow fancied himself quite the important fellow when he imagined himself taking on my assignments.

A mortified Lucius and Narcissa tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but Draco wouldn’t take a hint. Margo began muttering under her breath after each of Draco’s comments—phrases such as, “That’s likely” and “Yeah, right” were being peppered into the conversation at increasing levels. Miraculously, Draco didn’t even hear any of Margo’s snide remarks until the end of the meal, as Dobby was clearing the plates. The boy boasted about how proud he would be to valiantly carry out _the most challenging of tasks_ that any Malfoy had ever completed before, and Margo mumbled, “Right. And I’m a rainbow-colored Hippogriff.”

“WHAT?!” Draco shouted, rounding on Margo as she made to leave the dining room. “WHAT did you just say?”

Margo stared blankly at him for a moment before her lips turned upward in a disapproving sneer. “I said, _‘If you can complete challenging tasks, then I’m a rainbow-colored Hippogriff.’_ Happy now?” 

“What are you implying?!” Draco demanded as he shot to his feet. “You think I’m a chicken? Are you calling me a chicken?!” 

Margo stood up and proclaimed, “I’m calling you the biggest chicken that ever lived!!”

“You have some nerve, Margo! I happen to be the first Malfoy heir! _I’ll_ be initiated before _you_ are! You’re still a baby! What do _you_ know?”

“MY PARENTS ARE DEAD!” Margo bellowed as she stalked over to the boy. I’VE BEEN THROUGH MORE PAIN THAN YOU EVER WILL, AND _YOU’RE_ CALLING _ME_ A BABY?! YOU’RE THE WORLD’S BIGGEST BABY!”

Margo was now screaming in Draco’s face, and he flinched as a few drops of spit hit his cheeks.

“WAHH, WAHH, THE BIG BABY CAN’T HANDLE ANYTHING, SO HE HAS TO PRETEND HE’S A BIG HOTSHOT! HE HAS A BIG SHINY PREFECT BADGE AND A BIG SHINY INQUISITORIAL SQUAD BADGE AND HE JUST SITS THERE AND POUTS AT EVERYONE!”

I quietly left the scene and strode up to my bedroom. I wanted no part of this childish bickering. Unfortunately, sound carried in this house—even behind my closed bedroom door, I still heard every word. 

“You may have had pain, but you’re just a _little girl._ You know nothing of greatness, Margarita Samantha Malfoy! I’m a Prefect and I—”

“BEING A PREFECT IS THE BEST THING YOU’LL EVER DO, DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY! YOU ARE PATHETIC AND I HATE YOU!! I DON’T CARE THAT YOU TELL ON PEOPLE TO UMBRIDGE! THAT DOESN’T MAKE YOU SPECIAL! SHE’S SO STUPID AND PRETTY MUCH EVERYONE HATES HER! AND I HATE YOU MORE!!”

Lucius and Narcissa were mysteriously silent during this altercation...and so was I. I couldn’t believe this transformation in Margo’s behavior. Sure, she had occasionally shouted at Lucius about his son, but this was different—she was now confronting Draco directly instead of going through his father. She had never done that before. She was challenging the main source of her anger with a fury unlike anything we had ever witnessed from her. I imagined Lucius and Narcissa too stunned to even breathe.

Margo wasn’t done laying into Draco. While he sputtered and whined, she bulldozed on as if he were incapable of speech.

“Just come out and say it, you stupid chicken! You think being a Death Eater is the same as being a bloody Prefect?! You can’t even say the words _Death Eater._ Go on, say it now! Say _I want to be a Death Eater_ right now! RIGHT NOW!”

“I—I want to b-be a D—”

“See what I mean? You can’t even say the stupid words! Do you want the Dark Lord to hear that? He’s righ th—well, he _was_ right there, but I’m sure he can still hear me just fine! Do you want this to be his impression of you: a bragging chicken who can’t even say _Death Eater?!_ See, I can do it! DEATH EATER DEATH EATER DEATH EATER DEATH EATER DEATH EATER!!! Now, it’s _your_ turn! _Do_ it!”

“Calm down! You’re scaring m—” 

“You want to be a Death Eater and you’re scared of a _ten-year-old girl?_ Really, Draco?! You think what Death Eaters do is easier than seeing me get mad?!”

“Margo, stop it!!”

“Stop what? Pointing out how stupid you’re being? If you think you’re so cool, then tell me what you would do as a Death Eater! What if the Dark Lord came downstairs _right now_ and told you that you were now a Death Eater? What would you do? Tell me _right now_ what you would do! You’ve obviously been thinking about it for a while, so tell me what your plans are!”

“I—I dunno, I just thought I’d—”

“Be a chicken. That’s what you do best. I know your parents think so, too, they’re just too afraid to say so! CHICKEN! CHICKENNNN!” 

 _Smack. Smack._ “BOTH OF YOU TO YOUR BEDROOMS. NOW! NO DESSERT! AND NO DINNER TOMORROW NIGHT, EITHER!” Lucius shouted. He slapped both children so loudly, the sound reverberated wildly.

_Finally, the man of the house makes his move. I was beginning to wonder if he’d died of shock._

“Lucius, that’s not FAIR!” Margo whined. “Why are you punishing me for saying what everyone else is already thinking? Your precious baby is just that: a BABY. He’s fifteen and he’s acting like a BABY! And I’m SICK of it! And you wonder why I don’t want to sit with him in the Great Hall!” 

“I don’t NEED her to sit with me, Father!” Draco insisted. “I have friends who actually respect me!” 

“They only pay attention to you because you’re rich!” 

“OWW!” both children shouted as Lucius grabbed them and dragged them upstairs to their bedrooms before locking the doors. He cast Silencing spells on both rooms so Margo and Draco couldn’t continue their shouting match through the wall, and then stomped back downstairs to rejoin his shaken wife.

I’d heard the Malfoys fight before, but the novelty of observing their behavior had long since worn off. I couldn’t put up with it anymore. After the holidays, I was going to move.


	6. Alex | Summer 1 (1999)

All your insults and your curses  
Make me feel like I'm not a person  
And I feel like I am nothing  
But you made me, so do something  
'Cause I'm fucked up  
Because you all need attention  
Attention you couldn't give  
I sit here locked inside my head  
Remembering everything you said  
The silence get us nowhere  
Gets us nowhere way to fast 

—Staind ~ “For You”

 

Being back home for the summer felt like an immense disruption. Though I’d never truly felt at home with my relatives, I now felt even less so, having experienced the joy of being away from them for months at a time.

Given my family’s scrutiny, I had developed a severe hatred and fear of being watched before I was even old enough to articulate such words. This resulted in a fierce need for secrecy, to the point that almost _any_ question felt like a violent invasion of privacy. I wanted no special attention, good or bad. I didn’t want any of my movements, even achievements, to be in the spotlight. I wanted no reactions. I almost wanted to be invisible.

I knew that most of my parents’ queries were normal—such as “How did you sleep?” and “What are you thinking about?”—but I didn’t know how to explain that _I_ wasn’t normal. I wanted to be able to exist on my own terms without being seen as a broken chainlink, and I had no way of achieving that; I was only eleven and could not communicate my wishes eloquently. Since I had no idea how to assert my boundaries respectfully, I did what came easiest to me: I raged. 

These explosions were made infinitely worse by my parents’ assumptions that it wasn’t the _questions themselves_ that bothered me; I  _clearly_ just lacked the emotional intelligence to understand when someone meant no harm, so I assumed that everyone was out to get me! And if only I would learn the difference between good and bad intentions, _of course_ I would stop being uncomfortable! Merlin, my social skills really were lagging! My poor family! 

Yes, I knew the questions were perfectly normal. Yes, I knew my parents meant no harm, and I was probably the only person on the planet bothered by inquiries so innocuous, but why was I expected to be like everyone else? Why didn’t I deserve to have my needs met, while everyone else did? And why was I unfair for wanting the same respect that I was required to unfailingly give? Was I just...inherently less deserving than everyone else?

I tried so hard to explain my position—usually in floods of tears—but I could tell that deep down, my parents didn’t want to believe that my argument had merit. They didn’t want to even entertain the possibility, as that would take them farther outside their comfort zones than they had ever traveled. They were not emotionally equipped to handle such a venture. So, as usual, they punished me for their failures and made me feel responsible for their behavior.

Since they refused to give me as much alone time as I needed, I found ways to sneak it in. For example, I usually woke up before Morgan, but I began staying in bed until she woke up, pretending to be asleep until she left the room. That gave me an hour or two to myself, once she’d gotten dressed and crept out of the bedroom. My family thought I was suddenly becoming a late riser; but I really just needed some time to emotionally prepare myself for the day. 

I eventually realized that, despite knowing my parents’ good intentions, I didn’t actually care if I hurt them when I grew angry. And I should have. I was supposed to care about other people’s feelings. I was supposed to feel all warm and fuzzy when I made another person happy; but the mere thought of putting on a face and being polite for no reason filled me with rage. I couldn’t help it. There were moments when I could eke out a _please_ or a _thank you_ while in an exceptionally good mood, but it was so hard for me to be cheerful around my family—especially since these brief moments became such a bloody spectacle, replete with my mother’s over-the-top praise and my father’s exaggerated body language, meant to portray pleasant shock over my rare good behavior.

These actions made me feel even worse, and made me hate being friendly even more. I viewed my parents’ positive reactions as more damning a punishment than reprimands. Being scolded was normal for a child; but shock over _actually doing what everyone else was doing, and doing it properly!!!_ was not. I found it insulting. I tried explaining this to my parents—sometimes by telling them to calm down, but more often by screaming, “STOP MAKING SUCH A BIG DEAL OUT OF IT!!!” They never listened. They felt deflated. And then, predictably, they would scold me for ruining a wonderful moment. 

I couldn’t breathe around my parents. I desperately wished for somewhere to go just to get out of the house, but I had no friends. No escape. My parents wouldn’t even let me go out and run around the block to blow off steam, because they didn’t trust me to behave well if I encountered someone on the street. (My father also mumbled something about kidnappers, but he seemed more worried about my misbehaving than being abducted.) Therefore, I had nowhere to go but inside my head. Being present was too painful. 

About halfway through the summer, I began fantasizing about running away. _Where would I go?_ I wondered. _What would I pack? How would I survive?_ I knew I had no answers, but it was a fun place to go inside my head. I dreamed up vividly-detailed fantasy worlds where I had infinite time to pursue my interests, a few friends, and maybe even a cute boy to hold hands with sometimes. There were no names or faces; just fuzzy images. 

Outside of drawing and reading and wondering what I’d be learning in my second year at Hogwarts, daydreaming took up most of my time. It was not only painful to live in the moment; it was nearly impossible. I found myself drifting off and staring at nothing many times when my relatives spoke to me, and then they’d scold me for ignoring them—when really, I just couldn’t stand to be _there._ I kept to myself as much as possible until the time came for our annual trip to London.

As we’d already gone through the motions the previous summer, the event wasn’t as big a deal to me. I wasn’t bouncing around with excitement. And Morgan was full of apprehension over the thought of my having another meltdown in Diagon Alley—she didn’t explicitly state this, but she had no other reason to be scared.

Everyone in my family was on eggshells, waiting for me to explode over an “insignificant” slight in Diagon Alley, but it never happened. I almost lost my cool once, in the bookstore, but I realized I needed to prove my relatives wrong as much as I needed to complete the trip without problems, for the sake of my sanity. Whatever was left of my sanity, anyway. 

It happened in Flourish and Blotts, where I couldn’t help but look at the section labeled _The Dark Arts_. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be interested in those books, but how could I not be curious about something forbidden? Being off-limits made the mysterious tomes all the more enticing. _What was the harm in just looking?_ I wondered as my family moved past that section on the way to the textbook area. _My parents should be happy that I love learning so much. Why would they want to restrict my knowledge? Why don’t they trust me to just...look? I’m not actually going to do anything about it._

I knew better than to voice my thoughts. And I was certainly glad that Dumbledore wasn’t around to hear them.

After we’d finished collecting my new textbooks and got in line to pay, a shelf near the counter caught my eye: it contained a few stacks of sketchbooks and leatherbound journals. I flashed back to the essay I’d written for Dumbledore a few months earlier, and how the content would have served me better as a private rant instead of a character-damning essay. 

I tugged on my father’s sleeve. “Can I get those?” I asked, pointing to the diaries and sketchbooks.

“You want _all_ of those? Don’t be greedy!” 

“What?! I just meant one of each! A sketchbook and a journal.” 

“Oh! Um—sure, I don’t see why not. Go pick them out and then come right back.”

“Where is she going?” my mother snapped as I skipped up to the counter. “What is her pr—” 

“Renee, she’s getting a journal. I told her she could.” 

“Oh! Okay!” my mother replied in a tone of pleasant surprise.

I had to stop walking to collect myself when I heard this exchange—why was my mother’s kneejerk reaction always to assume that I was doing something wrong? I contemplated running out of the bookstore and just going off by myself for a while, but I knew that would only start a fight. And I had no energy for a row; being out in public with my family was stressful enough. I bit the inside of my cheeks to hold in my rage as I picked up the blank books and rejoined my family in line.

“What’s that face for?” my mother asked, narrowing his eyes as she regarded me suspiciously. 

“What? What face?” 

“You’re scowling. What’s the problem?” 

My eyes widened and a took a step back. “What—I’m not scowling. What are you talking about?” 

_Oh god. Here we go._

“Alex, you’re sucking in your cheeks and glaring. What’s going on?”

_Wow. Even when I contain my anger so as not to explode in public, I still have to look happy, or I’m screwing up even more. It’s never enough, is it._

“You don’t see yourself. You don’t hear yourself. You’ve got a really ugly look on your face and it’s unacceptable. Relax.” 

I blink and shook back the rage pounding through my veins. _Don’t. Lose it. Don’t. Lose it._

After the tension crackled in the air for about ten seconds, I looked down at my feet and nodded while clutching my books. I knew that the sooner I did what my parents expected of me, the sooner I could deescalate the situation and prevent a fullblown fight. 

It worked. I wasn’t sure how, but it worked.

We waited in line for about five terse minutes, all uncommonly silent, until it was our turn to pay.

“Thank you,” I murmured smoothly as my father handed me my new acquisitions. He nodded curtly without looking at me.

We completed the rest of our errands in relative quiet, with me making a few cheesy jokes to try and diffuse the tension _—“Oh, Mum! I’m glad these new robes are loose enough that no one can tell that I’m almost ready for a bra! Yup, Morgan, this’ll be you in a few years! Get ready!”_ No one was laughing heartily, but I had significantly lowered my family’s stress levels by the time we got back to my grandmother’s house. I felt relieved at the discovery that I could soften my family dynamic if I tried hard enough.

I continued with my good-girl charade for the rest of the day. Morgan had insisted on buying a new Wizard’s Chess set in Diagon Alley, which we all played for a few hours. My mother unfortunately noticed the frenzied glee that briefly flashed through my eyes every time one of the pieces barbarically destroyed another, but she couldn’t think of anything to say—everyone knew how the chess pieces behaved and they still played the game, so what would be the point in scolding me for enjoying it? Despite this knowledge, my stomach was still in knots until we put the chess set away and went to bed.

The next morning, I continued my performance of pretending to be asleep so everyone would leave me alone. When I heard Morgan talking to everyone downstairs, I grabbed one of my new textbooks and began to read. I hoped to make the week a quiet one, keeping to myself with my new books to avoid any more confrontations before I returned to Hogwarts. If I could just stay out of everyone’s way and only speak when spoken to, maybe I’d actually have a shot at a happy last week of summer. 

Boy, was I wrong. 

In some ways, it was a slow burn. I spent the next few days trying not to overhear my parents and grandmother arguing over what to do about me—I kept hearing questions like “Why won’t she join us for lunch?” and “You only come here once a year! I’d like to interact with _both_ of my granddaughters! Can’t you just _make_ her come out of her room? She’s your child! Lay down the law for her!” and “Why is it that all she wants to do is study? She’ll do enough of that at Hogwarts! She can’t keep making everyone uncomfortable like this!”

Little did they know that I had been trying desperately to integrate for as far back as I could remember, only to be shunned every time I veered off the acceptable path. Which seemed like every fifteen minutes. I popped into the living room for a game of Wizard’s chess or a meal with the family every so often, but it didn’t become routine. My relatives were always surprised when I emerged from the bedroom. 

While sequestering myself upstairs, I made a habit of putting my fingers in my ears as soon as I heard anyone talking. I didn’t want to hear any more nasty comments about my character. All I wanted to do was lose myself in my textbooks and sketchbooks and daydreams until I could finally get away from my family once more. This led to a few small spats, where I didn’t hear a knock on the door because my ears had been covered, so the person had to knock loudly before I jumped out of my textbook trance and scrambled out of bed to open the door as soon as possible. My relatives thought I was ignoring them, and I had to apologize profusely for having been lost in my thoughts and not hearing the initial knock. I couldn’t possibly tell them that I was sticking my fingers in my ears like a four-year-old; I’d never hear the end of it.

That was the slow burn. Then came the explosion. Literally.

Grandma Rosie ran into a woman named Vivian, one of my mother’s Hogwarts friends, at the market a few days after we’d completed my school shopping. They hadn’t seen each other since my mother had moved to America to marry my father. Vivian was happy to see my grandmother who, in an uncharacteristically friendly gesture, invited her and her nine-year-old daughter to come over for lunch. Morgan and I were playing Wizard’s Chess in the living room when the door opened and Grandma Rosie walked in with two complete strangers. 

“Oh, VIV!!” my mother shrieked upon seeing her former classmate. I stared blankly as they embraced, not knowing how else to react. I’d never been that excited to see anyone, and no one had ever been that excited to see me, so their behavior seemed strange. Even Morgan looked a bit apprensive. 

“Renee! It’s so good to see you! You look wonderful!” Vivian gushed. “This is my daughter Isabelle, but we call her Issy.”

“Oh, how adorable! Pleased to meet you, Issy!”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Halaway!” the girl parroted back.

_Oh, great. Another perfect little politeness fairy._

“Alex, Morgan, this is my friend Vivian!” my mom announced as she brought the guests into the livingroom. “We went to Hogwarts together. Come say hello!”

Morgan and I greeted the newcomers with a quiet _hello_. We weren’t sure what else to do. 

“Viv and Issy are staying for lunch. Why don’t you girls go play outside, and we’ll call you when the food is ready.”

“Okay,” Morgan replied, and led Issy and me into the backyard. We—well, Issy and Morgan—decided that we would play tag. I objected, being a slow runner, but I was outnumbered. As always. Issy quickly took charge and made Morgan be It.

My sister wasn’t great at running, but she was better than I was. And I hated it.

I grew increasingly angry as the game progressed, realizing that I’d likely be a much more agile runner if my parents didn’t rule their household with such an iron grip. Maybe they thought that because I ate well and maintained a healthy weight, exercising wasn’t important just yet? I never knew. And it didn’t matter either way, as the outcome was still the same. 

I thought of all the times I had begged my parents to leave the house on my own, after which I’d felt so drained and deflated from our arguments that I’d had no motivation to move for days. Adding insult to injury, my parents would then call me lazy for not wanting to complete my chores in such a state. 

They didn’t realize that I was neither lazy nor unmotivated; I was exhausted from being held back. Slamming myself into a brick wall to try and catch up with my peers was a grueling task; and I wanted to take advantage of the precious happy moments I could grab, by going out running. I wanted to feel the rush of wind against my face as my body moved. I wanted to lose myself in the physical exertion as my feet pounded the pavement, muting all thoughts of my traumatic life for just a little while. I wanted to watch and feel my body grow stronger as my muscles developed, allowing me more power over the future assailants I would undoubtedly face. Being in shape would not only feel empowering; it would make me safer.

It infuriated me now, more than ever, that I wasn’t allowed that experience. It also infuriated me that I hadn’t thought to go running around the Hogwarts grounds—despite all the pressure and abuse I faced at school, I still thought I was an idiot for not having thought to plan ahead to avoid my current predicament. Even though I could never have seen it coming. I felt punished by being the slowest of the group, stupid for my human fallibility, and enraged by my body’s weakness.

That fury sped me up a bit, but I was still stuck being It more often than the other girls. I felt ridiculous after chasing the giggling Issy for a good five minutes, after which I needed to lean against a pine tree to nurse a stitch in my side. There was nothing fun about playing tag, I decided.

My lungs were on fire. My throat stung as I gasped for breath. My heart was pounding too quickly for me to keep up. My legs were burning and shaking and I wanted to curl up in a ball on the grass for a while. I took some deep breaths to calm myself, which began to work until I heard mocking laughter behind me.

“You’re sloowwww! You don’t run a lot, do you! If you did, you could catch meeee!” Issy giggled. 

And then I snapped. 

I whirled around and glared at Issy as wrath like I’d never experienced filled me up and burst forth. It wasn’t just the embarrassment of being a slow runner; it was a culmination of all the anger I’d suppressed for the past week—or maybe even my whole life—over having to suffer to keep everyone else comfortable. I simply couldn’t hold in those intense feelings anymore. 

I wasn’t sure how it happened, but the tree I’d been leaning on suddenly...didn’t exist. Before me was a pile of burned branches, billowing smoke, and a screaming Issy. Whose severed right arm was lying on top of the splintered branches.

The loose limb was jerking and twitching as its fluids seeped onto the grass. Blood was dripping from Issy's bleeding stump like ice melting on a frozen waterfall after a long winter. The girl's screams rent the air as she clutched her injury, her face contorted in horror while she leaned against a nearby tree to steady herself. She seemed equally terrified by her severed arm and by the amount of blood coming off on her hand. It was a curious sight.

Had Issy not been yowling enough to virtually split my eardrums, I might have opted to simply watch and observe her condition. Would she die from the blood loss? Would she pass out? Could magic reattach the limb, no matter how long it took to find a Healer? If not, would she be able to acclimate to a life with only one arm? I wanted to find out, especially since I resented her so fiercely for her running abilities. It served her right after she mocked me; I'd already been mocked enough for a lifetime. Physical injuries always healed faster than emotional ones.

Unfortunately, I could not sate my curiosity; this was not a morbid daydream. This was real life, and I had no way to undo my actions. The brief fascination I felt was quickly morphing into alarm.

 _Oh, Merlin. I’m in trouble. How on Earth do I talk my way out of_ this  _one? Are my parents going to beat me half to death over this? Should I just make a run for it?_

“Damn it,” I whispered as I looked behind me and saw Vivian running over to us. I couldn’t take cover. I turned back around, shaking and panting from sheer terror, and tried to appear remorseful.

“Issy! I—I’m—” 

“GET AWAY FROM HER!!” Vivian bellowed, grabbing my shoulders and shoving me to the ground. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!” 

“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING! I WAS JUST STANDING THERE AND THEN—” 

“SHE BLEW OFF MY ARM!!” Issy shrieked. “SHE MADE IT HAPPEN! SHE WAS GLARING AT ME SO HAAAARRRD! RIGHT BEFORE IT HAPPENED!” 

 _Smack._ “YOU BRUTE!” Vivian screamed. “HOW COULD YOU!” _Smack._

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED!” I cried, swatting violently at Vivian’s arms to block the stream of blows to my stinging cheeks. “GET OFF ME, YOU BITCH!!”

 _Smack._ “YOU BROKE OFF MY DAUGHTER’S ARM! AND DON’T YOU SWEAR AT ME! YOU DESERVE MORE THAN A SLAP, YOU DEMONIC LITTLE—”

My father suddenly appeared and pulled Vivian off of me. “Why are you slapping my daughter?!” he yelled as I staggered to my feet.

“SHE DESERVES IT!” Vivian shouted back, pointing at Issy as my mother sprinted outside and joined the scene. 

“What happened?” my mother cried.

“YOUR DAUGHTER IS A MONSTER!! I AM NEVER COMING HERE AGAIN, AND I WILL RAISE THE DEAD IF ALEX _EVER_ GOES NEAR ISSY AT HOGWARTS! YOU’RE LUCKY SHE’S NOT OLD ENOUGH FOR SCHOOL YET, OR I’D PETITION TO HAVE ALEX EXPELLED JUST TO KEEP ISSY SAFE! HOW YOU CAN RAISE A DEVIL LIKE THAT IS BEYOND MY UNDERSTANDING! YOU’RE LUCKY I’M NOT SUEING YOU! THAT LITTLE BITCH SHOULD BE LOCKED UP IN AZKABAN FOR LIFE!”

“I’m sorry, Viv, I’m so sorry...” my mother sobbed as my father roughly grabbed my wrist and dragged me back inside. I tripped over myself on the way in, as he was pulling me too fast to give me time to walk. I yelped as the wood from the deck grazed my ankle.

“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SCREAM!” he yelled. “YOU AMPUTATED A LITTLE GIRL’S ARM!!”

“I DIDN'T MEAN TO! AND YOU’RE PULLING ME TOO HARD!”

He grabbed my waist and threw me over his shoulder, ignoring my kicking and screaming until we’d arrived in the bedroom. He threw me face-first onto my bed.

“DON’T MOVE! STAY THERE UNTIL WE COME BACK IN!” he commanded, and slammed the door with a deafening _BANG._ As the window was open, I could hear Issy and Morgan crying in the background while our mothers screamed at each other. 

I began to cry, too.

What on Earth had just happened? How had I made a tree explode and break off someone’s arm in the process?

My brain felt fuzzy. I was lightheaded and my heart thumped heavily as I trembled. I worried the organ would burst out of my chest from the pressure. I was trying not to throw up. 

What would happen to me? Surely, a Healer could reattach the stupid girl’s arm—that would be an overnight process at most. And even though I hadn’t severed her arm on purpose, I thought she deserved to be punished. She’d mocked me. She’d provoked me. I’d been provoked enough for a lifetime already, but all anyone ever seemed to care about was what I had done to deserve being mistreated. This was so unfair!

At the very least, I would likely endure a screaming lecture from my parents about my lack of self-control and how guilty I should feel. But why should I feel guilty? I didn’t go around trying to hurt people; I just seemed to attract bullies. I had nothing to feel guilty about.

And then a curious thought surfaced: _Had I ever felt guilty before? About anything?_  

I racked my brain for an answer, but found nothing. Whenever I’d hurt someone, the only thing I’d worried about was the consequence. And why should I be expected to do anything different? An abused pet doesn’t feel guilty for lashing out at its owners. As far as I could tell, I’d never had a reason to feel guilty in my life. Whenever I’d apologized for hurting someone, I’d only done so to deescalate the situation and avoid further harm to myself.

Morgan. My parents. Nicole. Meryl. And now Issy. I’d never felt guilty for hurting any of them; just scared of the potential repercussions. And I’d never met anyone else who felt that way.

How strange. Interesting, but strange. I’d have to think more about this later. 

As I pondered this concept to distract myself from the fear threatening to swallow me whole, I could hear Issy wailing and whimpering. Vivian was leading her and her detached arm off my grandmother’s property, and refusing help from my parents. My mother and Morgan were still sobbing over the incident, my mother calling out apology after apology, only to be met with a loud _FUCK YOU!!_  

 _Oooh, one of those words I’m not supposed to say._  

They obviously felt bad for Issy. But what about me? What would happen to me? I’d long since grown accustomed to being blamed for reacting to other people’s misbehavior, but this altercation was a new breed. I had no idea what to expect.

My tearful mother called to my father as soon as she and Morgan came back inside. I couldn’t decipher their words, but I could take an educated guess. I held my breath when I finally heard footseps outside the bedroom. A jolt of terror shot through me as my father opened the door. 

“Come downstairs,” he ordered gravely. 

“I didn’t mean it, Dad! I swear!” I cried. “I don’t know what happened! I just—” 

“Downstairs. NOW.”

I rose on wobbly legs and followed my father down the stairs, gripping the bannister tightly. I didn’t trust myself not to collapse. 

“Put your shoes on,” my mother said, so softly that it scared me further. I’d rather be yelled at than hear her speak this faintly. Something was very, very wrong.

“W-where are we going?” I stammered. “Where’s Morgan? Where’s Grandma Rosie?”

“Morgan and Grandma Rosie are upstairs. They’re staying here—there’s not telling how long we’ll be gone.” 

“What?? What do you mean? Where are we going?”

“St. Mungo’s. England’s Wizarding hospital—the same place Issy is now, getting her arm reattached.”

“But why do _I_ have to go there?” 

“Because you need help. More help than we are able to give you.”

“Is this another one of those...those _things_ you made me do when I was really little?!” 

“An assessment. Yes,” my father replied. “We would be awfully irresponsible to allow you to return to Hogwarts without one.”

So this was it. They were taking me to this St. Mungo’s place for a second psychological evaluation.

I’d had my first one when I was three and a half. I don’t remember the name of the facility—just that it was the American equivalent of St. Mungo’s. The mental health Healer, a bespectacled bald wizard named Frank, had attempted to level with me by talking to me through bewitched stuffed animals that were meant to represent various feelings, and changing his voice accordingly. All I had seen was an annoying old man who refused to take me seriously. I’d figured that the more sad and less angry I acted in front of Frank, the easier the consultation would be. The boring session ended after an hour. I never learned the results of that evaluation, and hadn’t cared to find out.

It was a bit different this time. I was older, more aware of the impact of my behavior, and my memory was more vivid. (My memory was more vivid than that of anyone I’d ever met—more a curse than a blessing—but that didn’t matter at the moment. What mattered was getting in and out of the bloody hospital as quickly as possible.)

The waiting room at St. Mungo’s was packed. There were many people ahead of me in line, and the earliest appointment was at 8pm. If the Healers were on time, of course. And that was eight hours away.

 _Damn it, why didn’t I bring a book?!_  

We sat in silence for about half an hour, before my father left for the cafeteria. “We’ll need some food if we’re going to be here all fucking evening,” he spat as he got up.

 _There’s that bad word again. I guess this situation calls for it._

I turned the curse over in my head.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It’s a good word. I wonder when they’ll let me say it out loud. It sounds like a word that would make me feel better if I could scream it to the rooftops. The FUCKING rooftops._

I giggled at the thought. 

“What on _Earth_ are you laughing about?!” my mother scolded. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry, I just...thought the word was funny.”

“What word?”

“That bad word Dad just said—”

“You just severed someone’s arm and you’re giggling about a swear word?!”

“I’m sorry! It just came into my head! I can’t control what I think about!”

“Well, maybe you should try! You have _no_ reason to laugh right now!”

“I’m sorry, okay?! Stop scolding me!” 

“Really, Alex? _Really?_ Do you not understand the seriousness of the issue? You caused a life-threatening injury, and you’re angry because I’m scolding you over a curse word?!”

“Of course I get it! Just—just STOP!” 

“Lower your voice.”

“How about you STOP your voice. I’m sick of hearing it. I’m sick of you scolding me every five minutes. It feels like I can’t do anything right around you. I’m trying not to explode again. Stop making it worse!” I shot out of my chair and made to walk away, but my mother grabbed my wrist and yanked me back down.

“You are _not_ wandering around by yourself, Miss Halaway! Stay put until they call you!” 

“Stop touching me. You’re pissing me off!” 

“Watch your language.”

“YOU watch your f—UUUGGHHHHHH!” I growled.

Heads turned.

My mother grabbed my chin and jerked my face to the left, to look into my eyes. “One more word out of you, and you will be alone in your room at Grandma Rosie’s for the rest of the week. Without any of your books. You will do nothing but sit in silence and think about what you’ve done. Do you understand?”

I nodded and pulled my chin out of her grasp.

The misery inside the waiting room was oppressive. I could barely stand it. My father returned with our food ten minutes later, and sat down on my right after passing us our meals. I loathed sitting in between them; but I couldn’t ask to switch seats, or god forbid get up and go for a walk. I couldn’t even speak, or I’d likely die of boredom as punishment before going back to Hogwarts. Spending a week locked in my room with nothing to do? I’d have a nervous breakdown. 

What could I do to pass the time? How could I calm myself down? The same way I always did when life became too overwhelming: I daydreamed.

_I was an immensely powerful witch. I was back at Hogwarts, but I was much older—maybe sixteen or seventeen. People would take me seriously if I were older. I had a gang of friends who all but worshipped me. We sat together in every class, we ate meals together, and we threw parties in the Slytherin common room over the holidays because no one wanted to go home. I was the ringleader, respected more than anyone in Slytherin House. Maybe in all of Hogwarts. People still feared me like they did in reality, but most of the girls secretly wanted to be me and tried to copy my behavior to win my approval. If this ever happened in real life, I would pretend not to notice. Because I obviously would have more important things on my mind, and I wouldn’t have time for fangirls._

_In this scenario, I spoke my mind with impunity. I read whatever books I wanted without worrying about being told that I wasn’t supposed to. There were no consequences. I likely had a stack of Dark Arts books next to my bed, just to feed my morbid curiosity and spite my parents. Would I actually practice Dark magic? Who the hell knew. For the time being, I was more interested in being able to do what I wanted without repercussions, and no longer being an outcast. Being admired for what made me ME. Actually having people I could count on because they respected me enough to take pleasure in doing whatever I asked._

At eight o’clock, a wizard came over to us with a roll of parchment and a quill. “This is a set of questions for you to answer about your daughter’s visit,” he explained to my parents. “When you have finished, please bring the form up to the front desk. We will call your daughter’s name when the mental health Healer is available.”

“Thank you,” my mother replied. “Do we know when that might be?”

“As soon as we can. She has three people ahead of your daughter.”

My parents sighed as the wizard walked away. I closed my eyes and returned to my daydream. 

“Alex Halaway,” came the voice of a witch near the entrance to the waiting room half an hour later. All three of us jerked our heads up toward the sound, relieved that our time in the hospital was finally nearing its end. We shot up out of our seats and briskly walked over to the woman.

“The Healer will see your daughter now,” the blonde witch told my parents.

“We need to go in with her,” my mother replied.

“No, I’m sorry—we actually don’t allow parents in the room for a child over ten. We need to know what the child is thinking without their parents’ influence so we can get a more accurate picture of their mental state.”

“Like the Healer won’t tell my parents everything I say as soon as I leave the room. Do you think I’m stupid?” I snapped.

“Alex!” my father scolded. 

“Actually, we only tell the parents that which could put the child or another person in danger. We are sworn to protect the privacy of our clients. As long as you’re not planning to injure anyone, including yourself, the explicit details of your session with the Healer remains private.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth? Can I see some proof?” 

“Alex, _stop_ it!”

The witch held up her hands. “Mr. Halaway, you should know that if a child is _this_ wary of trusting adults, something is wrong, and we will need to explore this in the consultation. I know it’s tempting, and I completely understand your frustration, but this is not a reason to tell her off.” 

“But she has no _reason_ not to trust adults!” my mother cut in. “We’ve been _beyond_ patient with her. We’ve put up with her attitude—and now _severing someone’s arm with her magic—_ for eleven and a half years! She is violent at Hogwarts, and she hasn’t been expelled! She’s been given special treatment beyond anything I’ve ever seen with any other child! Clearly, adults have her back, at home and at school. We support her; we don’t judge her! We _love_ her! All we want is for her to be happy and healthy! We just—” 

“Mrs. Halaway, please. This is not an attack on your parenting skills or your love for your daughter. We are all on the same side, working together to figure out what’s best for Alex. Now, I need to bring her to the Healer’s office. Could you please sit in the waiting room? The Healer will call you in when she has finished evaluating your daughter. You won’t hear what they discuss, but the Healer will give you her results.”

My parents nodded. “We love you, Alex. Remember that,” my mother pleaded, squeezing my shoulder.

I didn’t react. I simply turned around and followed the blonde witch into a small room with a desk, some games, and two big couches facing each other. 

“The Healer will be with you shortly. Would you like some toys to play with in the meantime? We have books, markers you can draw with—” 

“No, I’m fine.” _Because you’ll analyze anything I draw or read and show it to my parents. Just like Dumbledore did._  

“All right. Just relax. Everything will be fine.”

I thanked the woman and watched her glide down the hall, trying not to be scared.

 _How had it come to this?_ I thought as I inhaled the crisp scent of the too-clean leather couch. _How do I need another evaluation after everyone else was being mean to me? Shouldn’t_ they  _be the ones here instead?_ I shifted in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position that would make me appear as helpless as possible—surely, no Healer could see me as a threat that way, right?

“Good evening, Alex,” came a rich alto voice, jolting me out of my ruminations. I looked up and saw a tall, svelte witch with close-cropped dark curly hair, and a reserved yet warm smile. She walked into her office and shut the door. “My name is Melissa. I’m a mental health Healer and I’m going to be asking you some questions. Do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes. I’ve had one of these evaluations before,” I replied in a monotone. I needed to appear calm and collected. I needed to prove my parents wrong. 

“Why did you have one before?” 

“Because my parents said I was acting out and I was too angry all the time. They couldn’t handle me. They still can’t.”

“What was the result of that evaluation?”

“I don’t think my parents were happy with it. The Healer just tried to talk to me through stuffed animals and it was really dumb.”

Melissa went through a series of questions about my overall mood, my self-esteem, and how I would describe myself. She asked me about my relationships with my relatives, my hobbies, how I interacted with others, how well I functioned at Hogwarts—top of the class, thank you very much—and how I felt about hurting people or using them to get ahead.

 _Uh oh. This could be something she tells my parents. How do I water down the truth and make her believe me?_  

“I only want to hurt someone if they hurt me first,” I said quietly. “I don’t go around looking for ways to put people in the hospital. Everyone at school is mean to me. I want friends, but no one likes me.” I told her all about my squabbles at Hogwarts, and how I’d just snapped with Nicole and Meryl—my nerves had been frayed and I’d felt unsafe. I’d had no way to channel my feelings after being rejected and harassed so often.

Melissa looked thoughtful as she scratched her quill across the parchment on her lap. “Do you have problems with authority?” she asked after a moment.

“Of course I do! Almost every authority figure in my life has insulted me and made me feel like I did something wrong for fighting back when someone was mean! No one takes me seriously! Why would I _not_ have a problem with that?” 

She took some more notes, asked a few more questions about my distaste for authority, and then switched gears. “When did you begin developing trust issues?”

“I can’t remember _not_ having trust issues. It seems like every time I ask for something I need, I get yelled at. I don’t trust anyone.”

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, I don’t know you. You’re a stranger. I’d be stupid to tell all my secrets to someone I just met. Second, I think you’re looking for ways to diagnose me with some horrible disease and lock me up in Azkaban. Maybe my parents want that, too—they probably want to get rid of me. I don’t think anyone cares about anything I have to say. The only person who takes me seriously is Professor Dumbledore, but even _he_ betrayed my trust. He—” _DAMN IT. I’m going to have to talk about that essay now. Did I just screw up my whole plan of getting out of this without punishment?_

“What did he do?” 

I looked down at my lap, trying to hide the fact that I was screaming at myself inside my head. There was no way I could work around this—my parents had the essay. They could produce it on command. I had to tell the truth.

Melissa was silent for a while after I stopped talking, pressing her lips together and writing on her parchment some more. “How do you feel after you hurt someone? Are you scared? Angry? Happy? Guilty?”

“Why should I feel guilty when I haven’t done anything wrong?” I retorted. “If someone provokes me, that’s _their_ fault. You feel guilty when you do something bad, not when you react to _someone else_ doing something bad!” _See? I’m showing you that I know what guilt is. Please don’t ask me anything else about it._  

“Okay, so what does it feel like when you experience remorse?”

 _FUCK. I was hoping to ponder that question privately._ “Um...it feels like I’m a bad person because I made a mistake that’s too big for people to forgive. I feel worthless. I want to be a good person. I want to be respected. I want to be capable. I don’t want people to look down on me like some kind of ugly, deformed, incompetent creature that will never be good enough and can’t do anything right.”

“I see. Did you feel remorse when you blew off Isabelle’s arm?” 

“That was an accident!! I didn’t do it on purpose, I _swear!”_

“I understand that,” Melissa said sternly, “but that wasn’t my question. Did you feel bad for Isabelle when you realized that you were the reason her arm was no longer attached?”

“Yeah! I felt horrible! I wanted to take it back as soon as I saw her arm on the ground. I was really confused—I didn’t know how it happened. I got really scared. Especially when her mom threw me on the ground and started slapping me.” 

 _Scritch scratch_ went the quill.

“Would you ever want to hurt an animal?” 

“Only if it hurt me.”

“What happens when you get bored?” 

“I don’t get bored.” 

“Ever?” 

“No. I can’t handle boredom. I always have to be doing something productive, or I’ll go crazy.” 

“You’re _always_ being productive? You don’t allow yourself to rest?”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t nitpick what I’m saying. Of course I rest! I just mean that when I have energy, I have to be doing _something._ I can’t sit around and do nothing. I have to occupy myself somehow or I’ll burst. The second I feel like I don’t have something to do, I can almost feel my skin caving in and I want to claw my way out of it and break free. It’s horrible. That’s why I don’t let it happen.”

“So what did you do in the waiting room?”

“I daydreamed.”

“What did you daydream about?”

“Can I keep _NOTHING_ private?! I’m not telling you!!”

More firm lip-pressing and note-taking.

“All right. Now, you told me that you don’t have any friends and people look down on you. Let’s imagine that you had a friend: what would you do if that person came to you with a problem? Would you want to help them?” 

“Sure, yeah. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you care about someone.”

“Don’t worry about what you’re _supposed_ to do; what would you _want_ to do? Would you ever want to help someone if you didn’t think you _had_ to?” 

“Maybe—it depends what was going on in my life. I just don’t have the energy for people most of the time. I have enough problems of my own and I’m not sure I could take on anyone else’s without exploding.” 

“Do you ever feel bad for people when you hear about their problems?” 

“Am I supposed to?”

Melissa laughed awkwardly. “It’s not a matter of what you’re _supposed_ to do; just be honest. Nothing bad is going to happen unless you present a danger to yourself or others.” 

“What do you think would make me dangerous?”

“If you express concrete plans to harm others.”

“Oh, Merlin, I’d never do that! Do—did you think I was going to do that?” 

“I didn’t think so, no.”

“Sorry, I’m just super paranoid.” 

“I can see that. Now, you talk a lot about what you think you’re supposed to do because you’re scared that harm will come to you if you don’t perform a role properly. I want you to think very hard about this: are you more concerned with doing the right thing to make a good impression and thereby protect yourself, or doing the right thing because it feels good to do right by others?”

I kept silent for a moment and pretended to be deep in thought before I spoke again. “I think both of those things are important,” I declared, trying to sound sincere.

“Alex, have you lied to me at all during this conversation?” 

 _Yes. I just did. But I’m not telling you that._ I glared at Melissa, a textbook image of exasperation and betrayal. “See, _this_ is what I’m talking about! I tell the truth and everyone thinks I’m lying!! And I’m supposed to be all nice and polite about it?! And then people wonder why I’m in such a bad mood most of the time, I don’t even _want_ to be nice because it takes too much—too much FUCKING energy!”

 _MERLIN, that felt good._ I clenched my jaw and shook my head, balling my hands into fists as I stared at the floor. I could feel Melissa’s eyes on me like static on my hair. I mustered up all the pain and anger and hopelessness that I could, and forced out a couple of tears for emphasis. I didn’t even look up at Melissa to see her reaction—I knew that doing so would give me away.

Why couldn’t she just understand that as long as people left _me_ alone, I would leave _them_ alone? I would only cause problems if other people caused _me_ problems! Why was that such a difficult concept for everyone? 

After I finished my performance, Melissa called my (extremely tired) parents into her office. 

“How did it go?” my mother asked.

“We had an interesting chat. As you probably know already, Alex is an uncommonly high-functioning child. She’s obviously gifted academically, and her intelligence far surpasses that of most eleven-year-olds. These are very good signs for her future; however, she also exhibits symptoms of Oppositional Defiant Disorder and Conduct Disorder. That explains her distaste for rules, social norms, and other people’s feelings.”

“They told us that when she was three and a half. She began trashing her bedroom, throwing things everywhere, and pushed each of us down the stairs—on separate occasions—when she flew into one of her rages. She was six when that happened.” 

_I really can’t live anything down, can I._

“I see. I should tell you that I hesitate to pin labels on a child as young as Alex, especially a high-functioning child, since such behaviors often result from a toxic home or school environment. This means that these traits are often reversible. Now, you mentioned in the form that she is bullied severely at Hogwarts and most professors don’t take her seriously. Something like that could definitely contribute to a child’s development of psychiatric issues. Though I believe that she can still have a fulfilling childhood, I would encourage you to watch her closely to make sure her symptoms don’t worsen. I think—” 

“NO!!” I shouted. “I’m SICK of being watched and scrutinized all the time! Nobody else gets punished like this for every little thing! It drives me _crazy!_ Why can’t you just leave me alone! Didn’t you just hear her call me _high-functioning?_ That means I can function without you people breathing down my neck every five seconds! This is what _makes_ me so mad all the time! Why can’t you stop?” 

Now I was crying for real. I shook and screamed as I allowed all the fear and anger and frustration of the day to flood out of me.

 _Look what you’ve done,_ I thought as my body convulsed. _You all did this to me! This is all your fault. I hope you feel like amazing people now!_

The adults were silent until I calmed down. My mother tried to stroke my hair, but I swatted her hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” I croaked through my now-parched throat. “Just leave me alone! Let me BE! I can’t BREATHE like this! Stop picking apart everything I do!”

I apparently wasn’t done crying. 

When I’d finally gotten ahold of myself, I was vaguely aware of Melissa asking my parents if they knew what an introvert was. They didn’t. The Healer explained that introverts need much more alone time than most people, and will get angry and tired if forced into too much social activity. “She may have a valid point about wanting to be left alone,” Melissa told them. 

“So...are you saying that we should just...ignore our own child?! Are you nuts?!” my mother blurted. 

“That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying that if Alex needs to be alone, then let her be alone, as long as she has no social obligations. Being an introvert definitely erects a barrier to her making friends at Hogwarts, but she is likely not the only introvert there. She may find herself making a few close friends over time, if allowed to do what feels right to her. If she is living authentically, she will attract the right people. I trust that she has the ability and observational skills to discern acceptable social behavior; she just doesn’t want to act appropriately right now because she’s too angry. So yes—” She gave me a mildly apologetic look. “Do continue to watch her, but also let her breathe. She may surprise you.” 

An eerie silence filled the room as I could feel my parents wrestling with themselves over Melissa’s words. Part of me wanted to smirk in relief, but I had no strength left.

Melissa told my parents to owl her if any further problems arose, even while I was at Hogwarts. After their promise to give me space, and my promise to respect my elders, we finally returned to Grandma Rosie’s house. 

We had to tiptoe because she and Morgan were already asleep. It was a small comfort, to be able to get into bed without having to talk to anyone. I fell into a deep sleep within minutes.

The tension in the house the next morning was profound, but it allowed me to eat in silence. Finally. I ignored my family and spent the remaining days of summer holed up in bed with my textbooks. The night before I returned to Hogwarts, my mother knocked on the door. When I told her she could come in, she sat down on the foot of the bed and said, “There’s a spell I’d like to teach you, which I think you’ll find useful at Hogwarts—especially given that you don’t trust anyone.”

“What is it?” 

“It’s a spell to lock a journal so that only you can open it. Would you like me to show you?”

My face lit up. “Yeah!”

I all but ran to my cauldron and plucked out my new journal. I studied my mother’s facial expression as she quietly withdrew her wand—she looked like she was teetering on the edge of excitement and despair. She was desperate to bond with me, but also worried that I would do something to upset her and ruin the moment. I tried really hard not to be annoyed; she always expected the worst from me, and then my motivation to do better would fly out the window. I’d think, _Why should I bother trying to behave well if the slightest mistake will send her into a tailspin? At least if I’m rude, she won’t be surprised because she bloody expects nastiness from me._  

Which was why that moment felt equally hopeful and terrifying for both of us.

The spell was pretty easy to pronounce, but she had to show me the wand movement a few times. We both ended up laughing when she exaggerated my initial mistake in the arm gesture, and I suddenly felt a pang in my heart. This small moment of levity was an all-too-brief glimpse into what my relationship with my parents would be like if they could just relax around me and stop trying to turn me into somebody else. My mother noticed that I suddenly had wet eyes.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” she asked, stroking my tears away.

“I wish we could be like this all the time,” I answered in a small voice that barely sounded like mine.

“Oh, honey, so do I,” she breathed, and pulled me into a tight embrace. I began sobbing into her robes before I could stop myself. She let out a sniffle or two of her own, but otherwise just held me silently and let me cry. 

She probably thought I was only crying to release the stress of the past week, but that wasn’t it at all. 

I was mourning.

I realized that, no matter how hard I tried, I would never have the kind of relationship with my parents where these sweet moments would be commonplace. We were too different, and my parents were too scared to admit when they were wrong. I had to parent them parenting me in order to keep the peace. And they would never know. They weren’t receptive enough to handle such harsh criticism, even if learning from that criticism could help them grow and improve their relationship with me. 

Though my mother was holding me, I felt more alone than ever. And I knew I could never share that with her.

I couldn’t make this a regular thing—crying over the relationship I’d never have with my parents—because it served no purpose. Surely, at some point, I’d meet people who accepted me for my authentic self instead of loving a mask I wore for protection? Maybe Melissa had been right, and I would find the right people as long as I remained true to myself.

My tears gradually stopped as I felt the familiar resilience rise inside me, and I pulled out of my mother’s embrace. 

“It’ll get better, Alex. I know it will,” she soothed as she got up to leave the room. “Be strong.”

_It might get better for me, but it will never get better for you. You’re trying to comfort yourself more than me._

I knew that realization would be the subject of my first journal entry as soon as I returned to Hogwarts. Merlin, I couldn’t wait to go back.


	7. Tom | 1996

I've told you this once before  
You can't control me  
If you try to take me down, you're gonna break  
Now I feel your every nothing that you're doing for me  
I'm picking you out of me, you run away  
I stand alone  
  
—Godsmack ~ “I Stand Alone”

 

I Apparated to Riddle House at the beginning of January. I hadn’t been there since murdering my father and grandparents as a teenager, so I wasn’t sure if the old house would even be standing today. Somehow, it was. The old caretaker had died, however, so the house was abandoned and in complete disrepair. If I were to stay there, I’d need to remedy this. 

I set about casting the necessary spells to restore the manor to its former glory, which took the entire day. I’d forgotten how huge the house was. Though my filthy Muggle father had owned it, I couldn’t deny that the estate was beautiful. It suited my needs as the greatest sorcerer in the world. And it was free from Malfoy family squabbles. 

By the time I was ready to return to Malfoy Manor for the night, the wallpaper was no longer peeling, the plumbing worked, and the furniture looked brand new. And that funny smell in the attic was gone. I didn’t even want to know where that had come from. 

I informed Lucius that I would be leaving at the end of the week, but still returning for Death Eater meetings. He nodded and asked me if I needed help with the move. Though it was tempting, I refused his assistance because I didn’t want him to know where I was staying. I only told him that he would no longer be hosting me after a few more days—however, I would need him to buy me two house elves as soon as possible. I didn’t mind cooking for myself until Lucius found the right elves; I simply couldn’t be seen out in public. And the Malfoys were certainly wealthy enough to purchase elves for me. 

I also instructed them to mail me their copy of _The Daily Prophet_ every morning after reading it, as well as all letters from Margo and Draco. I thanked them for their hospitality—not like I’d given them any other option—and departed Malfoy Manor with Nagini. 

Living at Riddle House felt strange. As I walked through the rooms to familiarize myself with the house, anger boiled within me—I would have grown up in this spacious mansion, had my selfish father not abandoned me! Though I still would have lived among Muggles, an undignified existence, I would have at least been spared the disgrace of living in an orphanage with no care or visitors. No obnoxious children picking on me because I was different. No irritating Mrs. Cole frowning at me in suspicion every other day.

How could my father have just up and left his pregnant wife? What kind of a man dishonored his family like that—especially considering that his wife was a witch! A direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin—Wizarding nobility! He should have been _honored_ that she’d chosen him as a mate! Even though he didn’t care for her romantically, he could have at least stayed for the prestige of being married to magical nobility—and for the sake of his own bloody _child_. I had done _nothing_ to deserve his abandonment. It wasn’t my fault my mother had been so desperate for love that she’d drugged my father to make him marry her. She’d died in childbirth, so he wouldn’t have had to even bother with her after I was born!

I understood his disgust over her behavior once she’d stopped feeding him the love potion, but _I_ had been innocent. _I_ hadn’t done anything wrong! And as solitary as I was, I would have been such an easy child to raise, had I been granted the same comforts as he: a beautiful house and enough money for comfort, quality food, and respectable clothing. He could have lived a long, happy life as a proud father, knowing all I accomplished as I grew up. He even had a second chance, when I had approached him as a teenager. How could he have turned his back on me again, after I’d spent so much time and effort locating him? At least he and his parents had shown their true colors to my face when I’d arrived on their doorstep. Their grotesque facial expressions had only fueled my rage and allowed me to execute them that much faster.

My family’s rejection had disgusted me. And their memory still disgusted me. I had the last laugh, though—I’d had the pleasure of taking not only their lives, but their house as well. I hoped they were turning in their graves. They'd never deserved me.

*   *   *

Another advantage to living at Riddle House was the absence of distracting housemates. I could finally continue my magical research uninterrupted. I had taken several quills and reams of parchment from Malfoy Manor before moving, in order to record all my discoveries. I also cast several spells to shield Riddle House from the public; though I doubted anyone would ever find me in this abandoned manor, I was taking no chances. 

I also learned that, while the task of fixing up a house with magic was relatively straightforward; creating new elements, such as a room, was tedious beyond belief. I toyed with the idea of changing the house’s arcitecture so it would reflect my tastes instead of my worthless father’s, but then that concept got me thinking: what if I could construct a house of my own, entirely with magic? Why should I have to stay in the home of such a pathetic man—and a Muggle, no less—when I could potentially create an entirely new structure, far from the essence of the family with which I wanted no association? Their bodies were buried in a graveyard behind the house, for Merlin’s sake. I didn’t want to be near that. Even though they were long dead, I still wanted to be far away from such filthy people.

Could I transport bits and pieces of this house to another location and use magic to replicate the materials? Could I build a foundation and render a house completely stable? Untraceable?

I figured that, if I were to tackle such an endeavor, I would need to learn a bit about architecture first. Magic would surely be useful, but I couldn’t simply wave my wand and make a house appear from thin air. I owled Lucius and told him to buy me some books on architecture, under the guise of fixing up the house where I was currently staying. 

He mailed me five thick books within a week. I had my work cut out for me.

Over the next several weeks, I read from those books and experimented with architectural magic obsessively. This was no longer a fun hypothetical situation to ponder: I was actually going to build my own home. I was going to build an undetectable mansion all for myself. And no one would ever know about it.

I figured the task would take a few months. I would need to transport and Transfigure some pieces of Riddle House—I couldn’t simply conjure bricks and stones out of nowhere—but I could do whatever I wanted to _this_ house in order to build my new one.

Lucius also found me two suitable house elves, who cleaned Riddle House and snuck around various shops to secure food for me. They were good cooks and stayed out of my way until I needed something, so I couldn’t complain.

In addition to my location, I was keeping another secret from the Malfoys: I was saving Margo and Draco’s letters. These missives were my only link to Hogwarts, and I heartily enjoyed reading Margo’s descriptions of events at the school. I didn’t care about how stressed Draco was over his OWLs; but it was fun to imagine him competing with Hermione Granger because his ego was so fragile, he couldn’t handle a Muggleborn outshining him. If I were a student alongside him, I would never let him hear the end of it. It would do him good to have his arrogance knocked down a peg or two. Or twelve. 

I couldn’t wait until I once again held power over the Wizarding world so that I could return to Hogwarts whenever I wanted. Unfortunately, that day seemed a long way off—but I was building my own bloody house, which was an achievement in and of itself. 

After Apparating around various areas of England, looking for a suitable place to build my home, I settled on a remote swath of land near a valley that contained a small cave. It was pure wilderness as far as I could see. It was perfect.

I staked out an extremely large area for the house and its yard, desiring a property that rivaled Malfoy Manor. Still haunted by memories of the cramped, crowded orphanage where I grew up, it was only natural that I craved the exact opposite. It took me a full day to mark off the entire stretch of land, and then surround it with protective enchantments. Once that was done, I consulted my huge pile of notes and decided to build a hidden chamber first. A panic room of sorts. Though I knew my enchantments would shield my property from intruders, magic was always evolving and I didn’t want to risk being exposed if someone—more than likely Dumbledore—invented a spell to circumvent my protective charms. If a person were to break in and catch me off-guard, I would need to Apparate somewhere in the house that no one could find. Somewhere large enough that I could live in, if the rest of my house fell to ruins. Not that I ever thought that _would_ happen, but I could never be too careful. 

It would be in this hidden chamber where I would brew my potions, experiment with new spells, and store all my notes. My most treasured possessions needed extra protection.

I removed a section of a wall inside Riddle House and Transfigured it into a more sturdy element. Once inside my property, I enlarged the new material and set both walls about ten feet apart to create a long tunnel leading underground.

After days of repairing burned and blasted-apart walls from spells gone wrong, I finally had my completed tunnel and the entrance to my underground chamber. As annoying as it was, at least I could stay at Riddle House for as long as I needed. And my house elves added some enchantments of their own to further protect my fortress-in-the-making.

Constructing the chamber itself was as difficult as I’d expected it to be. Even with the use of magic, I still had to figure out how to keep the ground from caving in and crushing the walls.

I decided to carve out a piece of the basement wall from Riddle House and Transfigure it into the sturdy walls I would create underground. This took several hours. Once completed, I had a gigantic hall with vaulted ceilings and ample space to work. The chamber comtained two rooms, one of which had a small tunnel leading aboveground for Nagini to use when she wanted to go out and hunt. I had her test it several times, much to her annoyance, before deeming it sufficient. She didn’t appreciate being told repeatedly to crawl one way, and then back, and then out again, but she only hissed at me once over it. I considered this a small victory. 

I chose fire for the chamber’s light source. From pieces of a wraught-iron chair I took from Riddle House, I transfigured the material into a network of vessels to run about two-thirds of the way up the walls, which I would cast alight upon entering the chamber. Figuring out exactly where to position the iron took more time than actually building this structure, but it was worth it when I cast _Incendio_ and the room lit up with no damage. It was beautiful. Even Nagini liked it. 

I further enchanted the room so that even I wouldn’t be able to Apparate out of it; only in—that way, if an enemy grabbed me mid-Apparition, they would have no way to escape; they’d have to stand and fight. 

But it wasn’t enough. If a spy somehow found this chamber, they could still harm me if they snuck in and caught me unawares. How could I secure this area even more?

Since this was to be a hidden lair, the tunnel leading into it would have to be an offshoot of a visible room. I chose the library. But I couldn’t simply position a wall in front of the tunnel leading to the chamber; that would be too easy. If Dumbledore found my residence, he would likely start blasting walls apart left and right. I would have to erect other obstacles. 

How would the tunnel deter intruders? Hidden weapons? Traps? Bright lights that would blind an invader? Maybe all of the above.

A month of experimentation finally yielded me the protection I needed. I charmed the walls so that anyone touching them would be thrown backward with superhuman force—landing them on the opposite wall, where the process would repeat until the person died from the impact.

But even if someone never touched the walls, they still wouldn’t be able to cross the tunnel, as the walls could now detect motion. Upon my entry, the charm would produce a pale blue haze; but for an intruder, the spell would fill the space with a blindingly bright neon green light, strong enough to burn a person’s retinas even with their eyes closed. And, as an added bonus, the entrance to the cavern would be a stone wall that only I could collapse. 

No one would enter my chamber now.

I felt much better with those enchantments in place. I still needed to stay at Riddle House for a while, as I pored over the architecture books and decided what building materials to take with me, but at least my house was now under construction. I had enough of a physical product to build off of, instead of abstract ideas that only existed inside my head. 

*   *   *

Far away from my construction site, Hogwarts was becoming a hotbed of activity. Draco and the other fifth-years were prepping for their OWL exams, and were therefore socializing infrequently. Draco told his father that he and his peers had essentially shut everyone else out of their vicinity so that they could study without distraction.

He and Hermione Granger were still neck-and-neck in grades, with Draco lagging behind by three percentage points. He was enraged that after five years, he still hadn’t managed to upset the “competition” and claim the top spot—especially since that spot was held by a _Mudblood._ Oh, horror of horrors. A Muggleborn student outperforming the wondrous Draco Malfoy, whose sole achievements in life had been four and a half years of high marks and a Prefect badge. I continued to roll my eyes at the boy’s shallow complaints, as I’d always done.

The rumors of Hermione’s secret organization persisted, despite the Inquisitorial Squad helping Umbridge destroy students’ freedom of expression. Adding to the tension in the air, everyone continued arguing over my existence and the fate of the Wizarding world. 

In the midst of the frenzy over the High Inquisitor’s tyranny, there were spots of mischief. Margo reported that during one Charms class, her friend Chicky had mispronounced an incantation and caused an explosion of pink glitter to spew from her wand. The sparkles covered her robes, her desk, and the students on either side of her, who were enraged. Margo had been sitting a few feet away and laughed loudly as Professor Flitwick screeched, “Miss Chicklepea! Whatever are you doing?!” followed by “Stop egging her on, Miss Malfoy! Five points from Slytherin!” 

Though Flitwick helped Chicky correct her mistake, the girl remembered the faulty incantation and began using it. All the time. Whenever another student crossed her, she brandished her wand and spewed pink glitter all over the offender. Margo told us that Chicky eventually began experimenting with variations on the spell, and the glitter was now enchanted. When she’d first begun subjecting her peers to her happy accident, a simple _Tergeo_ or _Scourgify_ removed the glitter, but those spells no longer worked. Several other charms were needed—but Chicky wasn’t finished perfecting her prank: she was determined to bewitch the glitter further so that only she could remove it from someone’s person. She finally accomplished this task after a few weeks, and her near-daily use of this spell quickly earned her the nickname Pink Glitter Demon. A nickname she wore with pride. 

And Umbridge, pink-loving lunatic that she was, clearly enjoyed the stunt. She never even threatened to discipline Chicky for her antics. That was probably another reason why other students resented Chicky so much; she was one of the only students whom Umbridge never punished. Margo and the rest of her group stuck close to Chicky in their efforts to evade the High Inquisitor’s harsh discipline, and usually succeeded. 

*   *   *

In the meantime, my house was gradually taking shape aboveground. I built the foundation and the library first, with no bloody Restricted Section to block my curiosity. It was likely half the size of the Hogwarts library—I lost track of how many shelves I had installed by the time I was satisfied. And as tempting as it was to start building up my book collection, I knew that finishing the rest of the house was more important. 

Other than the essentials, like a bedroom, bathroom, and dining room, I decided to create several other rooms for different projects under the scope of my magical experimentation. And I obviously needed a gigantic indoor pool as well, so that I could remain in tip-top shape—there was no telling when I’d land in a situation that required optimal fitness. With as many enemies as I had accumulated over the years, I had to be prepared for anything. 

I was pulling out all the stops and did not care. I was Wizarding royalty and needed a home to reflect that.

The entire structure was complete and fully functional by the end of April. This came as an enormous relief—not just because I had finished the most daunting part of the task, but also because I was getting sick of Riddle House. There were no ghosts on the premises, but there was a haunting presence there that I couldn’t shake. The specter made me uneasy every time I set foot on the property. I refused to live in the shadows of my worthless ancestors who had so brutally betrayed me, even though I’d exacted sweet revenge by killing them and framing my hapless uncle; building a new home had been vital to my wellbeing. 

Like most people, I needed to make my own way and separate myself from my parents. Yes, my methods of doing so were infinitely more dramatic than what was necessary, but it felt wonderful. Be that as it may, I did take some furniture from my parents’ house...but I duplicated and Transfigured it all into other objects, so nothing would remind me of the old manor. 

Before I knew it, I was putting the finishing touches on my new home. My house elves put the furniture where I instructed, and always prepared a hot meal when I was hungry. I still had a lot to do to make the house exactly what I wanted it to be, but at least it was now livable.

*   *   *

I spent most of my time in my hidden chamber behind the library. My elves provided me with all the potion ingredients and other magical objects I requested, and I set to work inventing as many new spells and enchantments as I could. Within a month, I had two huge stacks of parchment with all of my notes and discoveries. All alone and undetectable, I was in my element. All I lacked was more power and with it, the freedom to come and go from Hogwarts as I pleased. 

Though impatient to set my plans into motion, I wasn’t as anxious as I’d been before my near-death because, as I’d been reminding myself for a few years now, I had all the time in the world. I didn’t need to worry about the big picture just yet—I had Lucius at the Ministry, and he would likely help me recruit other Ministry workers as well. 

For instance, it was clear that the head of The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was Death Eater material. This man, Yaxley, was harsh, efficient, and smart as a whip. He talked a lot about blood purity and his disdain for Dumbledore, leading Lucius to ask him flat-out if he wanted to become a Death Eater. Yaxley had sneered and implied that he would one day, not realizing he was speaking to one of my followers. I wished I could have seen his face when Lucius had pulled up his left sleeve and offered to bring Yaxley to meet me. 

We had a few conversations at Malfoy Manor, after which Yaxley became my next Ministry plant. His assignment was to watch Fudge wield his High Inquisitor to sate his paranoia, encouraging the pathetic man to continue down his path of self-destruction. I knew that the current trajectory at Hogwarts could not last forever; but while this propaganda train was still moving, Yaxley was doing an admirable job of helping Fudge destroy his own reputation.

Realizing that Yaxley was a satisfactory Death Eater, I thought to myself: _if I could recruit this one Ministry employee, why not more?_ I turned my attention to Margo’s friends and their families. 

Growing increasingly curious about Lulu and her parents, I made Lucius do some digging to discover her ancestry. He snuck into the Room of Records—a long hallway on the first floor, with records of every witch and wizard in Great Britain—and found his information there. Lulu’s surname revealed her to be distantly related to the Black family. In other words, her family was Pureblood royalty. I could certainly use that to my advantage.

Fredrick and Ella Gilmore were Obliviators. Though a necessary occupation, I didn’t see them making _that_ much of a mark on the Ministry if I ended up recruiting them. Still...the more Death Eaters I had, the better. And maybe having a few in an unassuming role such as theirs could prove beneficial.

I instructed Lucius and Yaxley to woo the Gilmores. It took a few months, but they eventually came onboard. Once I’d met them, all I really had to do was flash their Pureblood mania in their faces and they were hooked. I promised them all the same jewels as I’d done for the Malfoys: power and prestige and rewards for obeying my orders. They all but rolled up their sleeves and begged for the Dark Mark.

People really were too easy to manipulate.

*   *   *                 

With Umbridge quickly taking over Hogwarts for the Minister, Draco and Margo’s letters were now more interesting than ever. There was still, of course, Draco’s predictable blathering about minor inconveniences, but I easily glossed over that because I was actually interested in his other observations.

Umbridge targeted students and staff equally. She began evaluating all teachers under extremely harsh criteria and fired Professor Trelawney after being unimpressed by her future-predicting abilities. Students felt conflicted about Trelawney’s sacking, viewing her as a joke but also being highly disturbed by Umbridge’s enjoyment in the woman’s nervous breakdown. The whole school witnessed the scene. Though Dumbledore came to her rescue and reminded Umbridge that she was not permitted to banish fired professors from the grounds, he realized that he was losing power over the school and began retreating into his office. Students hardly ever saw the Headmaster anymore. The last time students heard him speak was after he replaced Trelawney with a centaur named Firenze. Umbridge’s hatred of all not-quite-human creatures was well-known, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Dumbledore had hired the centaur simply to spite the pink-clad witch. She hadn’t found a replacement for Trelawney, anyway.

The High Inquisitor fumed over her lack of complete control of Hogwarts, and continued implementing new regulations left and right. Her version of detention spread like wildfire: forcing students to write with cursed quills that used the writers’ blood as ink, carving the written words into their hands. Despite loud protests from McGonagall, the punishment continued unabated.

Umbridge also announced a new rule disbanding all student organizations, but everyone know that something so frivolous would not stop Hermione Granger. Though obsessed with following rules she deemed just, she would loudly cross every boundary she deemed unfair. Which was exactly what she was doing now. She never explicitly announced that she was running the resistance, but she was extremely vocal about her denunciation of my cause. If another war started, she would be on the front lines, attacking Death Eaters left and right.

I didn’t anticipate a war anytime soon. I wanted to wait until I had more Death Eaters than anyone could possibly imagine, so Hermione and her friends would be grossly outnumbered. My goal was to take over the Ministry so slowly that no one even realized what was happening—no one would sound an alarm if governmental changes came too gradually to shock the citizenry.

I imagined conversations in which ordinary people refused to believe in my influence. The puppet government I’d slowly installed at the Ministry would be doing everything I asked as I silently pulled the strings. By the time I held enough control over the Ministry that I could enforce drastic changes, most people would be too deep in denial to see the truth. _Something THAT bad can’t possibly be happening in MY country...and these new rules cropping up every few years don’t seem that bad...oh, that one person disappeared? They must have been dangerous. As long as I am a good citizen and don’t make waves, I’ll be fine. This isn’t a big deal. Back to your knitting, everyone._

*   *   * 

There was no war, or knitting, but there was quite a skirmish at Hogwarts shortly before exams. Draco wrote home to brag about the Inquisitorial Squad finally doing something worthwhile: catching Hermione and her gang in the act of practicing duelling. The Squad had seen these students sneaking into the Room of Requirement several times, but the entrance had always sealed itself off just as they’d closed in on it. This time, the Squad had brought Umbridge with them. She blasted open the wall sealing off the Room of Requirement, revealing a group of around thirty students practicing defensive spells. She shouted, “GET THEM!” and her lackeys rounded up the rebels. The group was surprisingly large, and included the bulk of Hermione's fellow fifth-years and most of the Weasley children.

Umbridge herself only entered the Room of Requirement after it had emptied, and snatched a parchment from the wall with a long list of names: all the students who had pledged to join the resistance against Umbridge. They were calling themselves Dumbledore’s Army.

Umbridge, of course, assumed that Dumbledore had encouraged these students to fight in his name; but I didn’t believe that. Being Fudge’s right hand, Umbridge obviously trusted the Minister’s fear that Dumbledore wanted his job, and was lying about my return to gain power of his own. 

Alas, I knew Dumbledore better than that. As powerful and influential as he was, the old man desired only to be at Hogwarts; he wanted no part of Wizarding government. Not that Fudge would ever acknowledge the truth. Umbridge’s power at the school was proof of that. 

The High Inquisitor marched Dumbledore’s Army to her office and put all the members under the Body-Bind curse. Leaving her Squad to keep watch over their hostages, she stalked off to summon Fudge and a few other Ministry workers to take down Dumbledore. Fudge, Yaxley, and a few others soon arrived by Portkey and stormed the Headmaster’s office. 

They attempted to take him to Azkaban, under the guise of imprisoning him for conspiring against the Ministry. The old man wasn’t surprised, however. He “confirmed” Fudge’s suspicions—probably in an attempt to protect Hermione and the others—and escaped from Hogwarts with his pet phoenix. No one knew where he went. Yaxley told me that a man named Kinglsey Shacklebolt, one of Fudge’s aides, had mumbled, “You may not like him, Minister; but you can’t deny that Dumbledore’s got style.” 

Stylish or not, the man was no longer a threat—at least for now. My primary objectives were now bulking up my ranks and keeping an eye on Hogwarts through Draco and Margo. Draco penned a lengthy missive after Umbridge’s escapade with Dumbledore’s Army, which had not gone the way she’d planned.

With Dumbledore gone, Umbridge immediately declared herself Headmistress of Hogwarts. She and Fudge shared this development with the school through the Sonorus charm, before Fudge returned to the Ministry. Umbridge then reminded the student body that any pupils running unauthorized organizations will be punished severely, if not expelled. She ended her announcement with a warning to be on the lookout for students she would use as an example.

And that was where she went wrong. 

Minerva McGonagall had had enough of the High Inquisitor’s antics, and felt the need to avenge Dumbledore’s sacking. She saw Umbridge en route to her office to confront Dumbledore’s Army, and placed a Disillusionment charm on herself as she followed the woman. No one knew she was even there for quite some time.

After returning to her office and removing the Body-Bind Curse from Hermione—but not the others—Umbridge summoned Snape and demanded Veritaserum. Hermione clamped her mouth shut, but opened it as Umbridge viciously slapped her across the face. She then held the girl’s jaw open and poured the potion down her throat, to the delight of Draco and his goons. 

As I’d suspected from the beginning, Hermione had founded Dumbledore’s Army all by herself. Dumbledore hadn’t even known about it. She had formed the group to avenge the deaths of her friends three years prior, and in retaliation against the Ministry’s attempt to keep students defenseless. She knew I was alive, and wanted to fight.

After Umbridge finished extracting all the group’s secrets from Hermione, she commanded the girl to break up the group or face the consequences. She resisted, even while under the Cruciatus curse, until Umbridge threatened to kill one captured student for every minute Hermione refused to dissolve Dumbledore’s Army. Of course the bleeding-heart would rather sacrifice herself than her loved ones. So predictable.

The crying girl opened her mouth to speak, defeated at last. 

And then McGonagall burst into the room. 

“EXPELLIARMUS!” she shouted at Umbridge, grabbing the High Inquisitor’s wand as she toppled over backward into her collection of prisoners. The lady in pink screamed in protest.

“WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU DOING, DOLORES?! WE _NEVER_ USE UNFORGIVABLE CURSES ON STUDENTS! I SHOULD _NOT_ HAVE TO REMIND YOU!”

“It was for a good cause!” Umbridge shouted as she clumsily staggered to her feet. “This girl was running an organization to help arm students! Dumbledore has convinced her that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned; when he really just wants an army for himself, to unseat Cornelius! I will _not_ tolerate such hysteria! There will be no student uprisings against an imaginary threat! This girl insists that Dumbledore’s Army was her own idea; but I am convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Dumbledore manipulated her into forming the group so that he could seize control of the Ministry! He even _admitted_ it before he disappeared with his phoenix! He confirmed—” 

“You daft, pig-headed lunatic! You truly believe that Dumbledore has any interest in Fudge’s power? He was protecting Miss Granger from _you_ , you blithering idiot! And you will pay for your reprehensible actions! _Incarcerous!”_  

The large woman howled as she toppled over once again, unable to maintain her balance. McGonagall then disarmed and tied up the Inquisitorial Squad before releasing Dumbledore’s Army. After making the Army promise not to move, she used Umbridge’s fireplace to Floo into Fudge’s home and drag him back to Hogwarts. She began screaming at the Minister, in front of everyone, demanding his reasons for granting himself power over the school’s staffing and for hiring Umbridge. While he sputtered to find a convincing excuse, she performed _Priori Incantatem_ with Umbridge’s wand to show the Minster that his plant had tortured a student. 

The High Inquisitor was finished. 

Unable to convince McGonagall that his motives were pure—especially after she threatened to contact _The Daily Prophet_ about his behavior—Fudge relented. He admitted his fear of Dumbledore usurping him and agreed to reinstate the Headmaster, as well as Professor Trelawney. McGonagall demanded this promise in writing, to which he hastily complied before returning home by Floo.

Once Fudge left Hogwarts, McGonagall commenced screaming at the Inquisitorial Squad for their involvement in Umbridge’s crimes. She gave them all detention for every remaining day of the school year. This angered Draco more than anything else about that night. He and his thugs angrily stomped out of the office as McGonagall comforted a crying Hermione and her friends.

Draco may have felt marginally better after venting about this eventful night in his letters home, but he remained powerless to change anything. 

And, of course, McGonagall contacted _The Daily Prophet_ anyway, with Dumbledore at her side, gushing in relief over her Disillusionment charm having saved the day. Once the story broke, Ministry officials gave Fudge a choice: eliminate his rule granting himself power over the school’s staffing, or resign. He chose the former. He lost a great deal of credibility upon admitting his mistakes, even after condeming Umbridge to a life sentence in Azkaban. 

A week later, after exams,  _The Daily Prophet_ published Fudge's formal apology to the British Wizarding world _._ He was determined to uphold some semblance of dignity for the position of Minister. 

I was furious. I wanted Dumbledore out of Hogwarts and locked up in Azkaban. I wanted him incapacitated. Vulnerable to my attacks. I didn’t give a damn about Umbridge, as she had merely been a pawn in the chess set. Dumbledore, however, was immensely powerful and had managed to thwart me for decades. I would not tolerate this much longer. At the earliest opportunity, I would eliminate him. I didn’t see that happening soon, however—my power over the Ministry was not yet strong enough—but I knew I would succeed one day.

*   *   * 

Now having four Death Eaters working at the Ministry, I could step back and relax for a while. I made some alterations to my home décor over the summer, Transfiguring some pieces of furniture and rearranging others, and then decided it was time to start building up my library. My house elves went out and brought me books from anywhere they could find—bookstores, unsuspecting people’s houses, and even Hogwarts. I wanted as many books on as many subjects as I could get my hands on, and organizing my growing collection was great fun.

As I strode through the halls of my library, watching it slowly grow, I began thinking about all the time I’d spent in the Hogwarts library. I wanted to go back. I wanted to go anywhere in that castle with no fear of being attacked. I wanted to immerse myself in every book I could find, without having to resort to sending my elves on secret errands. 

Standing in the middle of a room full of empty bookshelves, I pressed my lips together and lost myself in a flood of memories. I don’t know how much time passed before I snapped back to reality from Nagini brushing up against my robes, but it must have been a while because my jaw felt tight. I massaged it angrily as I stalked off to the dining room for lunch.

Nagini was having some trouble adjusting to the new house. She certainly enjoyed its spaciousness, but seemed overwhelmed by its sheer size. And she didn’t want to admit it. After many incidents where she slithered off by herself and got lost, she stuck close to me all the time. But as much as I liked her, I couldn’t have her following me around because she had a habit of distracting me at the worst possible moment. She never enraged me as much as twelve-year-old Draco with the peacock incident, but it was still a problem. I knew I needed to do something about it when I was working in the library and heard a crash, followed by a strangled hiss, from behind a bookcase.

Nagini had somehow slithered behind the bookcase, and now she was stuck.

I was flummoxed. Though most of my library consisted of shelves affixed to the wall, I did have a few smaller bookcases for books on topics not widely researched. I thought it impossible to get behind the bookcases, especially for a snake as large as Nagini, but her heightened senses had picked up on a softness in the lower wall and she’d gone to investigate. She was now partially inside the wall, wedged in against the back of the bookcase.

 _“What on Earth have you done?”_ I hissed at her. 

_“Part of this wall is flexible and transluscent. I wanted to see if I could go through it and explore some other part of the house that way, and—”_

_“Nagini, you can’t just move through walls as a method of transportation! You’re not a ghost! And if you saw that this wall was faulty, you should have told me so I could fix it, instead of ramming yourself inside! What were you thinking? And how do you propose to get out of there?”_

_“I was hoping you had an answer. I can’t move.”_

I sighed loudly and rolled my eyes. _“I will get you out and fix the wall, but I don’t want you in the library anymore afterwards. You’ve lost your way several times now. This is getting ridiculous.”_

 _“So where do you propose I go?”_ she demanded after I moved the bookcase and blasted a hole in the wall to free her.

_“My hidden chamber behind the library. It’s a contained area where you won’t get lost. And you’ll remember that I charmed a small exit into one of the walls for you to come and go.”_

_“Fine,”_ she grumbled as her large body stretched out on the floor. I promptly fixed the weakness in the wall with a few spells and brought Nagini to her new home. She was still grouchy about getting stuck, but she’d done that to herself. I ignored her annoyed hisses as I opened the wall to the chamber and sent her inside.

*   *   * 

A few month’s after Nagini’s outburst in the library, Margo and Draco returned to Hogwarts. There, they discovered a very interesting development: Snape was finally teaching his beloved Defense Against the Dark Arts class, while my old Potions professor Horace Slughorn had resumed his post.

I found this quite odd, as Lucius told me that Slughorn had long since retired. Why was he back at Hogwarts? I’d never heard of someone retiring and then returning to work years later...without a compelling reason. Something was afoot. And I needed to find out what it was.

I considered using Margo as bait to find out what Slughorn was up to, since the professor had taken a particular liking to her—if I put her up to something, Slughorn would likely miss it because she appeared too young and innocent to do my bidding. (He didn’t even know if I was alive, anyway. No one was certain outside of my ranks, despite Hermione’s Veritaserum-laced confession in the spring, and I intended to keep it that way for a little while longer.) It was too early to start anything yet, though; I needed to hear more about Slughorn’s interactions with the Malfoy children and others. And the Malfoys were more than happy to provide that information.

Margo loved Professor Slughorn. She enjoyed his style of teaching Potions, which was a lot more cheerful than Snape’s, and thought him an exciting person to be around. He made his lessons fun and genuinely cared about his students. He also had a soft spot for Slytherins—but not Draco. This didn’t surprise me; Draco was not a likable boy. His greatest thrill of the year thus far had been watching Hermione fight back tears because she couldn’t brew a Draught of Living Death on the first day of class. Not that anyone else did—Slughorn had tried to motivate the sixth-years by offering a vial of Felix Felicis to the student who brewed the Draught perfectly, but no one succeeded. Draco’s letter on the subject was unnecessarily verbose. As were most of his missives. 

Draco’s letters were certainly getting interesting, though. I had to give him that. His continued obsession with one-upping Hermione was business as usual, but I found myself paying more attention to his descriptions of her after the first few weeks of classes. Draco had taken to following Hermione in his spare time because she was, in his words, cozying up to Slughorn. And Draco didn’t like it. He insisted that she was up to something. Normally, I would take Draco’s suspicions of anyone with a grain of salt, but this time felt different.

About a month after term had begun, Slughorn reinstated his Slug Club: a group of his favorite students with whom he dined in his private chambers every so often, just like he’d done when I was a student. Margo proudly wrote home to announce that she had become the first member. When Draco found out that he’d been excluded, _and_ that Hermione had also been invited, he went ballistic. He began making snide remarks every time Margo passed him in the hall, trying to get a reaction out of her so that he would have an excuse to flex his Prefect muscles and discipline her. It never worked—she knew exactly what he was doing and left his fragile ego to rot. As she always did. Narcissa kept writing to Draco, suggesting that if he learned to keep his arrogance in check, Slughorn might change his mind and include him in the Slug Club, but it was too late; the boy had already made his impression on the Professor. It wasn’t a good one. By the end of November, Draco had finally ceased kissing up to Slughorn and reverted back to his typical bratty behavior in class.

His suspicions of Hermione continued, however. His attention on the girl was now more focused, motivated by his resentment over Slughorn’s favoritism—I imagined him bursting at the seams, wanting to ask her, _“Why does Slughorn like you and not me, when he’s from my House?”_ which later could have morphed into  _“What is this bitch doing? Let me go complain to my father to make myself feel better.”_ Though this was typical of Draco, I could understand his suspicions—it was not common for a student to linger after almost every class to converse with a professor. I needed to find out what was going on.

I made Lucius tell the children to watch Hermione more closely and report her actions. Draco had nothing else to share, but Margo soon wrote that the older girl was occasionally speaking to Dumbledore in hushed tones—when the Headmaster actually made himself visible, that is. And she didn’t act like this around anyone else. Was she holding secret meetings with him and Slughorn? Was she warning them about something, or vice versa? Margo couldn’t figure it out. It unnerved me. 

I was initially proud of Margo for her entry into the Slug Club; but that pride morphed into gratitude when she began describing Slughorn’s dinner parties. She noticed that the professor was spending more and more time talking to Hermione after each Club meeting, and their conversations didn’t seem like dinner-party talk. She managed to catch a few words here and there on her way out. She heard nothing substantial—phrases like _“That must have been horrible!”_ and _“Yes, Miss Granger, you may ask me anything!”_ but she could tell that something was fishy.

In more lighthearted news, Margo’s infatuation with Sinjin continued—though she still denied it—and she had managed to befriend him through Lulu. In mid-March, she wrote home to tell us that the boy and his girlfriend were eyeing positions in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when they graduated in the spring. 

On my orders, Lucius told Margo to get as close with Sinjin and Snappette as she could. I needed to know if this couple had the skills required to join my ranks; I wouldn’t initiate them simply because they wanted to work at the Ministry.

Sinjin and Snappette weren’t the only students I thought about recruiting. I would likely recruit Lulu at some point, as I’d already collected her parents—but not while she was so young and immature. 

Margo believed that Lulu would make a satisfactory Death Eater, as long as she kept her vanity in check. Apparently, the girl was quite shallow and couldn’t stand getting dirt under her fingernails, literally or figuratively. Margo told us that she was already wearing makeup and obsessing over her hairstyle, and worrying when boys didn’t compliment her. This frivolous behavior would not last in my ranks.

Lulu’s attitude seemed to be a common problem in upper-crust Pureblood families; she must have gotten it from her parents. Though I understood where this sense of pride came from, I also surprised myself when I suddenly discovered the following thought pattern: I was becoming more invested in the traits of wizards I was hoping to recruit, and less interested in their blood status. I had been betrayed too many times by Death Eaters who had only joined me to feel important, but balked when they realized the level of commitment required. Shouldn’t loyalty be more valuable than parentage?

It seemed that the number of Purebloods was diminishing, anyway—beyond the Malfoys and other fanatics who would rather die than see their children marry Muggleborns—but magic was still thriving. Wasn’t that more important? Wizards were superior to Muggles, just by nature of our abilities. A Halfblood or Muggleborn wizard could have the same level of magical prowess as a Pureblood.

Though I had initially hated and shunned any association with the Muggle world, especially given my upbringing and my father’s abandonment, so much had changed since then. I realized that I would rather recruit a loyal, competent Muggleborn than a self-absorbed Pureblood who couldn’t handle the pressure, having only joined me to feel special. And anyway, half of these fanatical Purebloods married their own _cousins!_ That was repulsive. Why couldn’t these people understand that as long as magic continued to flourish and we weren’t in danger of being extinguished by jealous, greedy Muggles, a wizard’s ancestry didn’t matter? Our world could still thrive.

Though I hated my Muggle relatives for abandoning me, my biggest focus had always been attaining knowledge and power with which I could protect myself from death. As a Halfblood myself, I obviously knew it was possible for a wizard of mixed blood to be just as powerful and competent as a Pureblood. In myself and my followers, it was ability and loyalty I was after, not bragging rights because some uptight old wizard had kept his family pure through centuries of inbreeding. And the Malfoys were so bloody _pompous_ about it! Their attitude had clearly rubbed off on their son. A spineless coward like his father, Draco believed he was special simply because of the privilege into which he was born. I didn’t even know if he could handle being a Death Eater. Joining my ranks would be compulsory for him, but I secretly hoped he would die on an assignment. His Pureblood status had no bearing on his ability to perform the tasks I would expect of him.

After everything I had experienced, the concept of blood purity suddenly seemed so insignificant. 

I wondered if the Malfoys would ever discover my shift in opinion on the matter. Sure, I had always grossly exaggerated my belief in Pureblood supremacy to gain followers who lived by that ideology, but would the dynamic of my Death Eaters ever shift, with the initiation of new blood? Quite possibly. I would never reveal my new stance on the matter unless I felt it necessary, but I was certain that the atmosphere would change over time. I pondered different scenarios by which new Death Eaters joined because they wanted to help change the way the Wizarding world operated—not because they just wanted something for themselves—and the existing followers suddenly had to hide their outrage if I agreed with the new recruits’ ideas. How would older Death Eaters react to the initiation of Muggleborns or Halfbloods who made no attempt to conceal their ancestry? They wouldn’t be allowed to kill the new recruits without my permission, and the new soldiers would only die if they betrayed me or proved themselves incompetent. Maybe the Pureblood fanaticism would slowly die off over time, as my older followers were slowly replaced by new ones.

I certainly had enough time to find out. 

*   *   *

The Lestranges appeared to be thriving in their new home, as evidenced by the scenes I viewed in their minds through Legilimency. They settled in well, but their old demons resurfaced rather quickly.

Rodolphus and Bellatrix had a tumultuous relationship, as they’d always done—they were both self-destructive individuals who fed off of the drama the other one created. They both had had affairs and blamed each other for driving them apart, but always came back together. Rodolphus was the calmer half of their relationship, balancing his wife’s fiery personality with his laid-back demeanor. They did care for one another, despite their turmoil, but their marriage was more political than romantic. Be that as it may, they did often enjoy each other’s company.

Rabastan was the rock of their household. He was as stoic as always, reminding his brother and sister-in-law that they served a greater cause than their marital disputes—being loyal Death Eaters, whom I valued enough to have broken out of prison, should always be in the forefront of their minds. Squabbling over petty problems did not help anyone. 

The other reason he interfered was that he simply disliked Bellatrix. As powerful and intelligent as she was, her boistrousness repelled the quiet, serious man and he had no patience for her screaming. He often had to rein her in when she started acting ridiculous, ranting and raving and throwing things as if the world were burning. I saw one image in his mind of him slapping her across the face when she wouldn’t _shut the bloody hell up,_ and another of him casting a Silencing spell on her and seeing how long it too her to notice that her shouting was not being heard. Rodolphus either found his brother’s behavior entertaining, or viewed it as meddling preachiness, depending on the day. 

Barty Crouch Jr., on the other hand, was still full of pranks. He was like a childish version of Rabastan in that he could diffuse a Lestrange blowout with the right amount of humor, the way the other man could stop a fight with stern seriousness. However, that didn’t mean he never took his jokes too far. His pranks followed the pattern he displayed at Malfoy Manor: bewitching and Transfiguring objects to scare or distract an offender, reminding the person to lighten up and not take themselves so seriously. (Though it seemed his real motivation was simply to turn the household into his own private comedy show.) Rabastan was the only one who could keep Barty at bay, as the younger Crouch secretly feared him and his formidable presence. I suspected that, had Rabastan not been living with them, someone would have ended up dead in one of their fights. And though I could replace any Death Eater, I still didn’t want to lose the Lestranges. They were some of my best. 

Barty behaved admirably around me, as devoted and enthusiastic as ever, so I didn’t care how much he riled up his housemates on their own time. All that mattered was that they all followed my orders to the letter and remained competent.

*   *   *

I was working in the library one morning before reading Draco’s last letter of 1996. Something told me to hold off on reading it until I’d perfected the spells I’d recently invented, not wishing to lose my train of thought. After working for a few hours, I felt I’d accomplished enough to divert my focus to Draco’s missive. There were a few paragraphs of his usual blabbering about his classes, and then he began discussing Hermione. 

Apparently, he’d been leaving the Potions room after class when he overheard Slughorn and Hermione talking. While not even attempting to gather her materials, she had said the word _Voldemort._ Draco had bristled at the sound, but pretended he hadn’t heard because he didn’t want to attract attention. The word still scared him, however. He’d written to Lucius, practically begging his father to reassure him that I wasn’t about to materialize at Hogwarts and kill him—not that the amusing idea hadn’t crossed my mind, but I wouldn’t actually do something so brash.

I couldn’t understand why Draco’s news troubled me. Surely I didn’t need to worry just because a sixteen-year-old girl was no longer afraid of using my preferred name—maybe I had simply come up in her conversation with Slughorn, but it hadn’t meant anything. I returned to my work, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling growing stronger in my stomach, but my progress was too slow for my liking. The restlessness wouldn’t abate. Concentration eluded me. I needed a break.

I stalked off to my pool, needing a vigorous swim to clear my head. I lost track of how many laps I’d done before I began pondering Slughorn and Dumbledore’s peculiar interactions with Hermione. Was she doing a special project? Was her comment about me just an offhand remark? Was there a problem that she’d only shared with those two professors because she didn’t trust anyone else? I couldn’t blame her for that—I remembered growing closer with Slughorn than any other professor while a Hogwarts student. I had often asked him questions about controversial magical theory that other professors would never have answered—they might have even grown angry about my curiosity. But not my Potions Master, who encouraged any and all questions from his students. Slughorn was just open-minded like that. That’s why I’d always liked him. 

If Hermione, like me as an inquisitive teen, needed to talk to someone about a topic she didn’t feel comfortable sharing with anyone else, then—

Suddenly, I knew.

I knew why Dumbledore had brought Slughorn back to Hogwarts. It had nothing to do with teaching Potions, and everything to do with me.

For the first time in many years, I was abjectly terrified.


	8. Alex | Year 2 (1999-2000)

I don't love how you love  
But please don't leave me here alone  
I don't feel how you feel  
Well, it's my fault I'm bones  
I don’t die how you die  
I can’t just waste away  
You keep changing your life every day  
If it burns, I'll keep fueling the same dream  
If you fall, I'll remember to save game  
I don't want your remedy 

—Cold ~ “Remedy”

 

After the disaster that was my summer vacation, I decided to make my second year at Hogwarts the time to improve my social skills to a passable level. I may not have been able to relate to others’ emotions too often, but I knew I could fake them better if I studied people enough. Other than academic excellence, learning to blend in would be my main goal for this school year. The less special attention I received, the better. 

Practice began on the Hogwarts Express. Having no friends, I sat in an empty compartment and waited for it to fill up with strangers. Two first-year boys eventually joined. After a few minutes of awkward silence, I started a conversation with them to see how they would react. There was the obvious shock at my accent, about which I willed myself not to anger, followed by forced pleasantries centered around the boys’ impressions of Hogwarts from their parents’ stories. I did my best to move my facial muscles and use the right vocal inflections to reflect interest in the boys’ comments. It took a while to get the proverbial motor running, but I ended up holding a conversation for about an hour. It was successful, yet frightfully boring. 

I silently cheered when they boys fell asleep, having exhausted themselves gabbing about their apprehension over being away from home for a year—something I could never understand. And nor would I care to. I adored being away from home. With a triumphant grin, I quietly pulled out my new Transfiguration textbook and read until the train arrived at Hogwarts. 

Though my performance on the train had boosted my energy, the rush quickly faded as I gingerly sat down in the Great Hall with my fellow second-years; no one wanted to talk to me. I asked a few normal questions— _How was your summer? What electives are you taking?_ —but my peers’ responses were short and clipped, often with no eye contact. They looked at me like I was a dorky Hufflepuff trying to ingratiate myself with the popular kids.

I was crushed. 

I spent the entire feast staring down at my dinner so I wouldn’t have to see my Housemates glowering at me. I didn’t need to avert my eyes, though; I could feel their judgmental stares like fire on my skin. My stomach roiled. As excited as I was to be back at Hogwarts, mealtimes clearly would not be the highlight of my schedule. I willed the time to pass as quickly as possible until Dumbledore dismissed us to our dormitories for the night.

As I had already experienced rejection from every area of my life, I had already built up enough defenses to handle further ostracism without breaking down. My Housemates had put their stake in the ground, so I would now put in mine. Maybe I couldn’t make friends with them, but Slytherins weren’t the only students at Hogwarts. Surely, _someone_ would warm up to me eventually. 

Unlike my first day from the previous school year, I didn’t cry myself to sleep while the rest of my Housemates bonded. I was numb. Jaded. I looked up at the ceiling, jaw set firmly as I promised myself that I would finish the school year as a visibly normal child, regardless of what was going on inside my head. Crying petty tears and feeling sorry for myself wouldn’t help me get there; being strong would. And I knew I was already stronger than all of my Housemates combined. They’d never survive a day in my shoes.

*   *   * 

I awoke feeling determined. I put on my game face and strode down to breakfast alone, making no attempt to even look at my Housemates. I held my head high and pretended not to notice them. _Let them stare_ , I thought. _Let them judge me. I don’t need them. I’ll find other people who are nicer._ I plopped down into an empty seat at the Slytherin table and began eating.

“What?” I asked Felix as he narrowed his eyes upon seeing the expression on my face. He immediately looked away, but kept sneaking apprehensive glances at me when he thought I couldn’t see.

“Keep staring,” I challenged him. “I might do a trick.”

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me. You may not like the trick, but I’ll do it just as well.” _I pay attention in class and can hit you with a few nasty curses. Just try me. I dare you._

Felix sank into himself and returned to his food. I did the same. I wouldn’t take shit from anyone anymore; even nonverbally.

As Felix returned to socializing with our Housemates, a high-pitched male voice shouted, “DO A TRICK! DO A TRICK! WHO’S DOING A TRICK? I’LL DO A TRICK FOR YOUUUUU!” 

I rubbed the bridge of my nose and growled, “Go _away,_ Peeves!” 

In response, the poltergeist grabbed a nearby bowl of fruit salad and threw it in my general direction. I rolled to the floor just in time—unlike a few unfortunate classmates—and chased the cackling imp out of the Great Hall, screaming my head off yet again. This time, though, I was less bothered by his behavior and more angry that he wasn’t solid. I couldn’t injure him like I could an annoying classmate.

Like I needed another reason to look ridiculous in front of the entire student body. I fucking hated that poltergeist. 

*   *   *

Academically, the school year began without a hitch. I was ahead of everyone in all my classes and maintained my top spot. 

Since I already understood most of the material before each lesson, I sometimes zoned out during lectures and looked for students who I could potentially befriend. There were a few Ravenclaws, and even Hufflepuffs, who seemed to fit the bill.

I didn’t introduce myself immediately; I didn’t want to appear desperate, though I was surprised at how much restraint I needed to employ to appear nonchalant. As introverted as I was, I realized that I really _did_ want friends. I was tired of being rejected all the time. If everyone else got to have friends, why couldn’t I?

I decided to approach a Ravenclaw girl after a Transfiguration lesson in early October, since we had two classes together back-to-back—I figured if I could strike up a conversation between classes, maybe she’d actually want to sit with me in our second class. I hadn’t been sure of what to say, because when I made the same getting-to-know-you small talk like everyone else, it was somehow strange just because it was _me_ doing it. Despite this, I still thought of a few snippets to initiate a conversation.

As I rehearsed what I might say to the girl, I wondered how much of my predicament stemmed from social awkwardness and how much came from my reputation. I guess I couldn’t blame people for not wanting to talk to the girl who slashed up an older student in the middle of the Great Hall and showed not an ounce of remorse. I wouldn’t want to talk to a shrieking lunatic, either. If I were to rebuild my reputation, I had a lot of work to do.

“I like your bracelet,” I said to the Ravenclaw girl as we were both leaving McGonagall’s classroom.

“Oh, thanks!” she replied. She sounded mildly surprised by the compliment. 

“Where did you get it?” 

“My older brother got it for me for my birthday. I think it was from the jewelry stand outside Madam Malkin’s.”

“Aw, that’s cool.” 

We were quiet for a moment, and then I introduced myself. She hesitated slightly before shaking my outstretched hand.

“Alex, everyone knows who you are,” she remarked, like I should have known. “We all saw you put Meryl in the hospital last year. And I’m Stephanie Miller.”

I sighed and tried not to scream in frustration. This venture was not going according to plan. 

“I—I’m not a murderous crazy person,” I offered with a wan smile as we made our way to History of Magic. “Meryl and her friends had been harassing me for months and no one did anything about it. None of the professors even believed me. She shoved my face into my birthday cake and pretended it was an accident.” 

A flicker of apprehension crossed Stephanie’s eyes. “Yeah, I’ve heard about Nicole and Arielle. They’ve got all the teachers wrapped around their little fingers. Everyone knows they’re huge suck-ups, but I didn’t realize they were _that_ awful.”

“They are. There was a lot of pushing and elbowing and knocking my books out of my arms...things like that. I just...snapped.”

“Oh. That’s...that sucks.” She tensed up and her eyes widened. 

_Oh, god. Did I just start dumping my problems on a complete stranger?! No wonder no one wants to talk to me. I’m clearly full of too much doom and gloom...but god damn it, I don’t WANT to be! I want to be a calm, easy-going, level-headed person! I don’t want drama and violence to follow me! This isn’t fair!!_

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I probably shouldn’t have...dumped on you like that. We just met. Sorry.” 

_Show her you understand proper social boundaries. Fix this, Alex. Come on! Don’t be a downer! Act normal and stop making her uncomfortable!_

“Um...it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I mean...I _did_ bring it up.”

“Right.”

Another awkward silence. _Fuck, this is painful._

“Do you like History of Magic?” I asked, desperate to break the silence.

“Who actually likes it?” Stephanie laughed. “Professor Binns really needs a replacement. He doesn’t even seem to like teaching.” 

“Yeah. It must be awfully boring to be a ghost. Maybe he’s just teaching for something to do.”

“Who knows. I think—”

“STEPH! Did you see that note I flew over to your desk?” gushed a blonde Ravenclaw who suddenly appeared on Stephanie’s left. 

“About that boy Jason who tried to steal your headband? Yeah, he totally wants to kiss you!”

“I knowwww! He’s kinda cute, but I’m not sure. I’ve always liked his friend Parker better. He’s got such a great smile. And I love the way he spikes his hair and bleaches it with that spell....”

I was only half-listening by this point, as I suddenly felt like a third wheel. I knew Stephanie wouldn’t care if I faded into the crowd, and it certainly would have been easier to just leave her with someone she already knew and liked, but I hadn’t rehearsed this whole Trying To Make Friends thing for nothing. I inclined my head toward the blonde girl and waved awkwardly. 

“Uh...hi?” the girl responded, looking at me like _I_ had just butted into _her_ conversation instead of the other way around. She hadn’t even realized that I’d been talking to Stephanie before. 

“Oh! Sorry. Julie, this is...Alex. We just started talking.” I didn’t miss the hesitation before she said my name. It felt like I’d been slapped, and I willed myself not to flinch. 

_Why couldn’t she just introduce me like I was a regular person? Why the discomfort? What does she think will happen if she talks about me like I’m normal?_

“Hi Julie!” I said pleasantly. I attempted to reach over Stephanie to shake her hand, but quickly realized that doing so would block Stephanie’s path. Super awkward. I pressed my lips together and looked at my feet to avoid the questioning looks both girls gave me. My face burned.

The girls talked quietly until we arrived at the History of Magic classroom—Stephanie was clearly more interested in what Julie had to say than my ungainly attempts at conversation.

“I, um—I guess I’ll see you later then,” she said to me, while turned more toward Julie. She seemed like she was trying to figure out how to let me down gently, but I wasn’t going to let her. I could take a hint. At least I could show her that I understood when I was not wanted and save her the trouble of rejecting me outright. Maybe she’d respect me at least a _little_ bit for that. 

“See you later,” I replied curtly, and walked away before she could say another word. I wasn’t going to linger. 

As I always did, I slumped into an empty seat. Stephanie followed Julie into the classroom behind me, still talking as they sat down together. With me out of the way, all their discomfort was gone. I could practically see the tension evaporating around them the second I had walked away. 

I frowned and stared at nothing until Professor Binns floated into the classroom to begin his lecture. I spent the class period willing myself not to scream and burst into tears of frustration.

 _Why should I even bother trying to make friends if I make everyone uncomfortable just by trying to have a normal conversation?_ I thought as I wandered into the Great Hall for lunch. I was so lost in my thoughts that I jumped when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

It was Stephanie. 

“Hey, sorry about that thing with Julie,” she said.

“Eh...don’t worry about it. I think it was awkward for all of us. And I didn’t want to make it worse.”

_Look at me not being clingy and getting in people’s way. See, everyone? I understand social behavior better than you think I do._

Stephanie’s brow furrowed. “No, it wasn’t a problem to talk to you. You weren’t bothering me.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah! It wasn’t you; the situation was just a little weird. And Julie can be a bit...loud.” 

“She just jumps into conversations like that?”

“Oh, yeah. All the time! Don’t mind her.”

I felt the corners of my mouth tugging upward slightly at her admission. And then I knew exactly how to proceed. “Hey, do you...have a partner for that Transfiguration project?” I asked. 

“I haven’t actually thought about it yet. It’s not due for a month.”

“Oh. I like to get a head start on everything.”

Stephanie laughed. “You’re a better student than I am. I procrastinate on everything.” 

“Well...do you want to work with me? We can meet up in the library a few times, and I’ll make sure we get the project done with time to spare. Sound good?”

“I’m a little scared.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I’ve never had someone make me do my work with that much time to spare. This is scary.” She didn’t actually look scared, though; she was chuckling. It must have been a joke.

I relaxed. 

“So you’ll work with me? I promise I won’t hurt you.” I held up my hands in a gesture of peace.

“All right, I’ll work with you. Just...just don’t hex me if I have a hard time meeting deadlines.”

“We _are_ splitting the work evenly,” I laughed nervously.

“Oh! No, that’s not what I meant. I’m just saying I’ll need to adjust to _not_ putting things off. You’ll have to nudge me.”

“I can do that. Don’t worry—I’m not gonna crack a whip or something; I’ll just be...um...I’ll be motivational! And I’ll make it fun!” 

“Okay, I can live with that. I’m gonna have lunch now. See you later!”

“Later!” I called after her. “Hey, let’s make a study schedule tomorrow so you don’t feel overwhelmed!” _Crap. Don’t sound too enthusiastic. You’ll scare her off._

Stephanie paused mid-step and then turned around. “See, this is why you’re at the top of the class! You think of these things ahead of time. Making a schedule wouldn’t have even occurred to me!” We grinned at each other.

I drew up a study session plan the following evening. I had waited a day to make sure she hadn’t changed her mind and did, in fact, want to work with me—I’d been bracing myself for her to saunter over to me with her proverbial tail between her legs, apologizing because one of her  _real_ friends was angry about her working with someone else, which meant that she’d have to leave me hanging. I was amazed that she’d actually kept her word.

The next day, I plopped down in the seat next to Stephanie in Transfiguration and slid the study schedule over to her. I didn’t even look at her; I just elbowed her lightly and subtly moved the parchment across the table.

“What—OH!!” she laughed loudly, earning her a stern look from McGonagall. I turned away and laughed into my hand—more in excitement than amusement. _If this is what friendship feels like, I need more of it. That was amazing._  

“Good one!” Stephanie whispered as McGonagall began the class. I gave her a fist bump under the table and spent the rest of the class trying to pay attention instead of grinning like I’d walked into a Cheering charm.

Stephanie and I began sitting together in every Transfiguration class. I wasn’t sure if it was because she liked me a lot, or she was simply grateful to know a smart classmate who could help her study, but it happened all the same. And she did seem to enjoy my company. 

By the end of the week, I realized that I finally had a friend. 

I learned that Stephanie was a laid-back girl with enough friends to be comfortable—not enviously popular, but she’d never have to worry about her peers looking at her like she had Dragon Pox. She’d always have someone to sit with in class. She was just an average student working her way through Hogwarts, not making any waves. Exactly what I wanted to be. I hoped that if Stephanie and I got close enough, the student body would begin to view me that way as well.

I was a bundle of tension and nervous excitement for the next two weeks, as we met in the library every other day to work on the Transfiguration project. I was extremely enthusiastic—more enthusiastic than anyone else would be to have a friend—but also constantly terrified that I would say or do something to ruin the friendship and further tear apart my meager self-confidence. I tried my hardest to be pleasant and calm when studying with Stephanie, but too-loud nervous laughter sometimes escaped my mouth when Stephanie made a comment that wasn’t funny enough to warrant such a reaction. I knew it was uncouth, but the thrill of having a friend was amplifying my responses and I couldn’t seem to tone it down, no matter how hard I tried. I was mortified.

Maybe Stephanie picked up on my anxiety over the situation, and maybe she didn’t—all I know was that my awkward behavior eventually got to be too much for her. She slowly lost interest in my company over the next few months, but not enough to outright tell me to take a hike; that is—until one Saturday morning when I’d invited her to come to the Slytherin common room to play Wizard’s Chess. I was hoping to spend time with her outside of academics, and show her that I wasn’t an overly-reactive lunatic afterall; unlike studying with classmates, I had played Wizard’s Chess enough times that I felt confident in my ability to behave normally in such a setting. I was determined to correct my missteps and improve Stephanie’s opinion of me.

I practically bounced out of bed that morning, anxiously waiting for 11 o’clock to arrive. The time she said she would be there.

She never showed up.

For two hours, I hoped that she had overslept, though my gut told me otherwise. It had been a big deal: I had never before spent time with someone just for fun. I almost skipped lunch because I felt so sick inside; I wasn’t that hungry, anyway. Around three in the afternoon, I trudged down to the Great Hall and ate a tuna sandwich that I barely even tasted. I spent the remainder of the weekend doing homework and sulking in my dorm.

I walked into McGonagall’s classroom on Monday and found Stephanie sitting with Julie. And, as luck would have it, one of my Housemates was sick that day, so there weren’t enough students to fill all the tables. I sat alone.

I could feel my classmates’ stares and hear Stephanie and Julie whispering in hushed tones. I couldn’t make out their words, but the tense tone in Stephanie’s voice told me enough: she realized that she wasn’t too crazy about hanging out with me after all, and wanted to get rid of me as painlessly as possible—but after ditching me over the weekend, I wasn’t going to let her off that easily.

“Where were you on Saturday?” I asked as everyone exited McGonagall’s classroom. She had stuck with Julie and a few other girls, presumably to protect herself from me. They all crowded around her when they saw me coming, but I wasn’t scared anymore. I was too angry to fear repercussions.

“I, um...I just didn’t feel like it, okay?”

“So why didn’t you say something? I was waiting around for a while. I could have gone and done something else, but I waited for you because you said you would be there.” I paused. “...Do you want to come over another time?”

“Maybe. I’ll...I’ll let you know later. I gotta go.” She began briskly walking away, eyes downcast.

“Steph!” I called after her. “What’s going on?”

She ignored me. 

I stood frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at Stephanie’s back until two of her friends turned around and walked back to me. “You need to leave Stephanie alone,” one scolded.

“What are you talking about?”

“You need to stop bothering her. You’ve made her uncomfortable enough.”

 _“What are you talking about?!”_ I repeated, feeling frantic now as three other girls were approaching, looking quite defensive. “I haven’t done anything to her! I thought we were friends!”

“You made her feel horrible for not wanting to work with you in Transfiguration!” another girl snapped. “You made her feel like she _had_ to work with you AND sit with you in every single class! What, do you think she doesn’t have any other friends? You think you’re special or something?! You’re _obsessed_ with her! What’s next, are you going to try and kiss her or something?” 

“Wha—” 

“You’re a freak!” the other one chimed in, cutting me off. “Leave Stephanie alone!” 

I was floored. Fighting back tears, I robotically walked to History of Magic and tried to make sense of what had just happened. 

The next few weeks brought me several dirty looks and eyerolls from Stephanie and her group of friends. Some of the girls went so far as to tell me to back off and stop stalking Stephanie, if I so much as passed her in the hallway. I hadn’t even attempted to go near her since she’d stopped talking to me, but I was apparently such a horrible person that I traumatized her just by being in her ten-foot radius—I had _obviously_ been following her like a creep!

The girls acted as if I had forced Stephanie to spend time with me, instead of her initially wanting to and then changing her mind, which she clearly didn’t have the guts to admit. All her friends believed that she was suffering terribly at the injustice of having felt obliged to be near me, like I was a criminal for wanting friends. 

Had Stephanie told them lies about me? Had she only associated with me out of pity? Was she really so repulsed by me, or did she feel pressured to drop me to preserve her friendships with people who hated me? I suspected it was both, but still—I hadn’t done anything wrong.

....Had I?

Had I pressured her to prioritize me over her closer friends? She _had_ agreed to work with me on that project, and she hadn’t seemed put off when I’d begun sitting next to her in class. Was I just...such a bizarre individual that anyone I liked felt punished by receiving my attention? 

My family had always made me feel that way. Come to think of it, I didn’t know how it felt to have someone truly enjoy my company. And I was starting to wonder if anyone ever would. Should I even bother trying to befriend other kids, or would they react like Stephanie had?

I did attempt to make friends with a few more classmates over the next few months. We had to pair up for a Charms project in November, and I got lumped in with the only other person in class who didn’t have a partner. The Gryffindor boy didn’t seem enthused about working with me, but he wasn’t entirely abhorred either—he just wasn’t interested in being my friend. He wanted to get the project over with as soon as possible with minimal social interaction. So that attempt fell flat.

I tried again a few weeks later. I had joined the chorus at the beginning of the year, and figured I might be able to make friends from a shared love of singing if I said the right things to the girls who stood near me during rehearsal. Not that I hadn’t been trying that all bloody year, but maybe I just needed to hone my conversational skills a bit more. Surely, I just needed to try harder and eventually I would make at least _one_ friend. 

This didn’t work, either—some of the other singers were polite and responded when I spoke to them, but they showed no genuine interest in engaging with me. No one ever initiated a conversation with me. But outside of that subtle rejection, chorus wasn’t that bad. Singing proved a great distraction from my social problems. 

The activity also boosted my confidence a bit, since Professor Flitwick discovered that I had an extremely rare gift called perfect pitch—I could hear a note and name it without help. I didn’t see the big deal, but Flitwick went nuts. He insisted on using me as an example whenever the other singers stumbled over tricky intervals. I felt both proud and embarrassed by this, because I was sick of getting special attention. I just wanted to fade into the background with a few friends, and otherwise be left alone. 

Be that as it may, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel _some_ sense of pride at my classmates’ sudden jealousy. Some of my fellow sopranos asked me for help occasionally, but I could tell they weren’t interested in _me—_ they just wanted my assistance. I didn’t care, though. Their attention meant that I had something they didn’t. I began to feel quite smug about this, though I would never say it out loud. I’d already suffered enough character assassinations, fuck you very much. 

I often wrote about these conflicting feelings in my journal. I thought back on my former friend Stephanie—how polite and friendly she was, and how easily she blended in. I wanted to be like her so badly. But why? I was not a naturally social person. I was not a naturally friendly person. Why, on one hand, was I so desperate to be like everyone else; but on the other hand, I was dying to just let loose and be myself without a care in the world? 

My mom had once told me that all children were insecure, but were they so fragile that they were abjectly terrified of being themselves in any capacity? I doubted that. I was either the most insecure child on the planet; or I was simply acutely aware of how different I was, and thus fearful of behaving genuinely. Or maybe both. 

It may not have been safe for me to be myself publicly, but I could write freely in my journal, and draw whatever I wanted in my sketchbook. So I wrote and drew obsessively. I didn’t draw too often—I just sketched out a handful of black and white images depicting my emotional turmoil—but I brought my journal to the library with my homework almost every day, and wrote until my arm cramped. The act was incredibly cathartic and allowed me to attain some level of calm in my chaotic life.

At first, I didn’t write about everything that came to mind; I was too paranoid, given my fear of being watched and punished for that which bothered others. However, once I grew comfortable writing down some of my private feelings and seeing the words stare back at me, I gradually began pouring more and more of my unbecoming thoughts into my leatherbound tranquilizer. And I realized that if anyone saw what I was writing, I would likely be institutionalized.

Anger was the main theme. Anger about the unfairness of my social situation. Anger about my parents’ refusal to love me unconditionally. Anger about my inability to be myself without facing abuse. Anger about being punished for trying to be what everyone thought I was supposed to be.

I couldn’t win either way, and I wanted to hurt everyone.

I wanted to scream at Morgan until she cried, demanding answers for why she never came to my defense when my parents invaded my personal space and screamed at me. I wanted to push my parents down the stairs again and hear them cry out in fear. I wanted to injure people the way I’d injured Meryl and Nicole the previous year. I wanted to beat my classmates to a bloody pulp—especially Stephanie and her bratty friends. Though I was grateful that Nicole and her cronies had steered clear since my eleventh birthday, I felt more pain from other students’ rejection. Most physical wounds could heal with ease. Emotional wounds, not so much.

Merlin, I felt so weak. If I wanted to become stronger, I had a lot of work to do. 

One evening, I was on a writing tear after finishing my homework, and I realized that I wouldn’t finish my journal entry before curfew. I dropped my journal in my cauldron with a sigh and traipsed down to the Slytherin dungeons. I had never written in such close proximity to others—not to mention people about whom I was writing—but I wasn’t going to let this entry go unfinished. I plopped onto my bed, set my inkbottle on my bedside table, and continued writing. I became so absorbed in the rush of words flooding out of me that I actually yelped when I heard, “What are you writing?”

There stood a terrified Sarah who, moments earlier, had attempted to peer over my shoulder and read my journal. I slammed it shut and bolted out of bed.

“What are you doing?!” I shouted. “I’m writing in my journal! What makes you think you have the right to invade my privacy? Is NOTHING I do off-limits to everyone’s prying?!”

Sarah backed away slowly, holding up her hands in a defensive posture.

“What’s going on?” asked Jessica, who had heard me shout and come downstairs to investigate. Amy and Leah were behind her.

“She—she’s bloody insane,” Sarah stammered, and ran back into the common room.

“How is it insane that I don’t want people I DON’T TRUST to read my journal?! You all gossip about me, you make fun of every little thing I do like I can’t hear you, and now you think I’ll let you read my private thoughts like it’s just another piece of me you can pick apart?! You want my journal to be yet another thing you can hold over my head as an excuse to treat me like garbage?! And then you people wonder why I’m so pissed off all the time!!”

“Alex...I don’t think anyone was trying to make fun of you,” Leah said softly. 

“Asking someone what they’re writing about isn’t bullying. Sarah didn’t grab your journal and wave it around at everyone,” Amy added. “Maybe if you want people to like you, you shouldn’t assume that every question they ask you is meant as an attack. You’re really scary when you get mad.”

“But why should I think anything different?” I countered. “When has anyone _ever_ stood up for me? _When?_ I’ll wait.”

I folded my arms and dared my Housemates to prove me wrong. They couldn’t.

“Can you really blame me for wanting to keep everything I do private?” I asked them after a painfully tense silence. “Try having your every move critized all day long for your entire damn life, and then we’ll talk about what’s fair or unfair of me to do. Now leave me alone!” I rudely waved them off, no longer caring how I made them feel.

Maybe I really  _wasn’t_ cut out for social activity. 

*   *   * 

For the remainder of the year, the bulk of my socializing came in writing to my family. My parents’ letters were much longer than mine, given their extroversion, but our correspondence wasn’t too terrible—at least _someone_ wanted to keep in touch with me. 

My parents expressed concern for my wellbeing and social standing at Hogwarts, but I only told them some of what was going on. I didn’t want sympathy, or so much concern that they would again attempt to come to Hogwarts and intervene. I revealed what Stephanie had done, and a few other awkward instances of working with kids in class, but I never told them exactly how miserable I was. I didn’t want to think about my pain more than was necessary. I also didn’t want to appear weaker than was necessary. Maybe if I practiced at acting strong, I would finally toughen up.

Unlike me, everyone was doing well at home. My dad was enjoying his job, and remained quite busy. My mom was keeping house as responsibly as she always did, in addition to quizzing Morgan on the elementary skills she was learning in Muggle primary school. My sister was absorbing new concepts as quickly as I had done when I was her age. I didn’t anticipate her running into any problems when she came to Hogwarts—being an ambitious brainiac ran in the family.

I was sure Morgan would make our parents proud and be sorted into Ravenclaw. She’d probably be relieved to have some distance between us at school, anyway; after all the times I’d terrorized the house, I expected her to act like my Housemates and want nothing to do with me. That thought did make me a little bit sad, but at least I was realistic enough not to get my hopes up for nothing. For all my failings, I took comfort in the knowledge that I was more grounded than most children.

*   *   * 

One evening, a month before term finished, the second-year Slytherins took over the common room. In typical Slytherin fashion, they were horsing around and bitching about the upcoming exams. I don’t know how this event began; only that, after stumbling in after an exceptionally long study session in the library, I walked in on a firestorm. I stood awkwardly in the doorway, waiting for my Housemates to stop shouting and waving their arms around in fury as they insulted our teachers and complained about the workload. A hush fell over the room as soon as they saw me. 

“Did I interrupt something?” I asked hesitantly. “I can just...go to bed. I don’t want to intrude.” 

_Look at me being polite, you guys! See? I’m not a bitch ALL the time...!_

Everyone glanced at each other, not sure of how to react to my out-of-character statement. I began walking toward the stairs to my dorm when Ashlee’s voice stopped me. 

“We were just complaining about finals,” she told me.

I turned around and gave Ashlee a half-smile. “I don’t blame you. They’re pretty brutal.”

“You think so? You’re top of the class,” Monica remarked. 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean everything is a breeze. I’m at the top of the class because I study all the time; but I still struggle with the material sometimes, just like everyone else.”

“Really?” Ashlee asked. “You always seem so on top of everything in class.” 

“Usually, but that’s because I always look over the material ahead of time.”

 _Am I actually having a normal conversation with my Housemates? Pinch me, I must be dreaming._  

I all but tiptoed over to everyone and sat down in an empty chair by the fireplace, unsure if I even had a right to be there. 

“Ugh, I just need a break!” Ashlee growled, and hurled her Charms texbook at the wall. 

“Breaks are good,” I giggled. “I’ve been in the library all damn day. I think I’ll go cross-eyed if I read even one more sentence.” 

There were mumbles of agreement.

“Who’s up for a dare?” Monica asked loudly. 

I turned to face her. “What?”

“A dare! C’mon, guys, it’s Saturday night. We’ve been studying too much. I wanna do something else.” 

“What’s the dare?” Jon asked. 

Monica thought for a moment, and then she jumped in place as the perfect idea came to her. “Go into the girls’ bathroom on the second floor and stay there for an HOUR!” 

“Are you kidding me?” Leah demanded. “The one with Moaning Myrtle? That’s dumb.”

“If it’s so dumb, why don’t _you_ do it? Show all of us how easy and _dumb_ it is! If you do it, I’ll give you ten Galleons.”

Silence. 

“Aww, Leah, you’re no fun! I thought you’d be the person to do it, though. It’s just a stupid ghost. And everyone knows how much you like Peeves.” 

“I don’t know how _anyone_ likes Peeves,” I said. “I wish he were solid so I could smack him.”

“Don’t we all,” Ashlee sighed. 

“So, who’s going to the bathroom?” Josh drawled. 

Giggles everywhere. 

“Not like _that_ , you guys!” he groaned. “I mean who’s doing Monica’s dare?”

“Not me,” Levi called out. “I’m not going in a GIRLS’ bathroom. They’ve got, like... _pads_ in there. That’s worse than a whiny ghost.”

“Oh, grow up!” Ashlee spat. “Seriously. Grow up, or I’ll throw a tampon at you once I get _my_ period! And I can’t guarantee it won’t be used!!”

“Ewwww!” Jon shouted, and threw a couch cushion at Ashlee. She caught it and threw it at Sarah, who tossed it at Felix. It hit him in the mouth.

 _“Mmffff!”_ Felix protested with a face full of pillow. “I don’t wanna be in your stupid fight, and I don’t wanna talk about your stupid dare! Stop throwing things!”

“Well, someone’s gotta do it now! I’m not backing down!” Monica announced. 

They all grumbled for a while, none of them wanting to accept the challenge. Amy even suggested more studying, before cowering under everyone’s dirty looks.

Without knowing why, I suddenly stood up and said, “I’ll do it.”

Everyone whipped their heads around and stared at me. They had all but forgotten I was there. 

“I mean it,” I insisted. “I’ll do it. Ten Galleons for that? Fuck yes.” 

“Oohhh, language!” Jon taunted. 

“Oh, please! Like _you’ve_ never said that word before,” I shot back before walking over to Monica. Such was the humor of twelve-year-olds.

“Don’t do it, Alex!” Levi called out. 

“Why not?”

“Have you ever even _been_ in that bathroom?” Jessica asked. “Myrtle’s really creepy. And if you just stand there for an hour, not even _going_ to the bathroom, she’ll...well, I dunno what she’d do. Even _she_ knows that no one goes into a bathroom just to hang out; they go because they, well...they have to _go._ ”

“What, you think I can’t handle a bloody ghost?!” I retorted.

“No, no! I’m sure you can! I’ve just never heard of anyone going in there because they _wanted_ to. Myrtle could seriously freak out. I don’t know what a freaked out ghost would—”

“I think she should do it,” Ashlee interrupted. “It’s just a silly ghost. So she’ll wail and moan and groan for a while, but so what?”

“Why don’t _you_ do it, Ash?” Monica asked. 

“Because she’d probably make me so angry that I’d want to punch her! But she’s a ghost, so I’d just get even _more_ mad because I can’t hurt her. UGH!”

“Monica, I’ll do it,” I repeated a bit louder, and glanced at my watch. I could probably swing it. “Ten Galleons?” 

“Yup!”

“Cool. See you in an hour.” And off I went.

Curfew was approaching, so I knew I had to be stealthy if I didn’t want to get caught—it wasn’t like I could just wander around and go somewhere else for an hour, and then lie about it to get my Galleons. A teacher could catch me. I had to do this right. 

After arriving at the bathroom in question, I slipped inside and quietly closed the door. It looked like a perfectly ordinary lavatory. I didn’t even hear anyth—

“Who’s there?” called out a squeaky female voice. 

“Myrtle? Is that you?” I asked.

“How do you know my name?” the ghost demanded, floating up from inside one of the stalls. 

“My Housemates talk about you.”

“Oh, of COURSE they do!” she whined. “EVERYONE wants to talk about how HORRIBLE I am! Poor little ugly, miserable, moping Moaning Myrtle! You’re all DESPICABLE!” 

 _I see what they were talking about. God damn. I’d better find some way to calm her down if I’m gonna have to be here for a solid hour._

“Well,” I began, “maybe _they_ are, but I was the only one willing to come in here and talk to you.”

Her translucent eyes widened. “You—you _wanted_ to talk to me?”

“Yeah! One of my Housemates—” 

“No! This has happened before, with those meanies from your House! You’re trying to TRICK me and I won’t fall for it! You’re all the same! You’re all sneaky Slytherins just like _he_ was!” 

“Who’s _he?”_  

“The boy who was in here when I died!”

“Wait— _what?_ There was a boy in here? Why? And when? How did—how did you die?” 

The ghost’s face softened ever so slightly. “You really want to know?” she asked, almost begging me to be interested in her story. 

“Of course! It sounds like it was such a big deal. I can—hang out for a while.” 

She smiled coyly before beginning her tale. “It really was the most dreadful thing,” she sighed. “I came in here to cry because I was so sick of being teased. No one liked me.”

“I know what that’s like.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah. I don’t have any friends. No one likes me, either.”

_Merlin’s beard. I can relate more to a fucking ghost than a human being. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not._

Myrtle stared at me for a moment, clearly taken aback. “Are you serious, or are you lying to me?”

“I’m not lying. I swear.” Now I was  _definitely_ curious. No acting required. “Can you tell me what happened?” 

“Okay,” she sniffled, and floated over to hover across from me. “Like I said, I was in that exact stall over there, crying because this brat Olive Hornby had been teasing me about my glasses. I heard a noise after a while and I realized someone had come in.”

“Who was it?” 

“I don’t know; I just heard a boy’s voice. He started saying all these weird things in some made-up language. I figured he came in here for a prank and was trying to scare me, so I decided to prove him wrong. I screamed at him from inside the stall, telling him that I wasn’t scared and he needed to GO AWAY or I would HURT him! Then he said _‘If you come out, I’ll hurt you; not the other way around. Don’t test me. You won’t recover.’_ I said that he must be a Slytherin and he told me I was _very observant!_ in this obnoxious voice. I thought he was just trying to be tough, so I threw open the door of my stall to get in his face and I just...died. I saw two great big yellow eyes and that was...that was just _it._ I died just like that.”

“The boy had yellow eyes? Was he sick? Was it some kind of curse that killed you?”

“I don’t even remember if it was the boy or not—I just saw those eyes and I DIED. It was HORRIBLE.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I glanced at my watch, hoping Myrtle wouldn’t notice. But, of course, she did.

“Are you TIMING me?!” she shrieked. “What is this, some kind of game? Am I BORING you?!” 

“No! Not at all! I was just—it’s almost curfew. I don’t want to get in trouble for—” 

“So stay here for the night and talk to me. No one ever wants to talk to me. I thought you did!”

“Well, I _do;_ but I can’t stay here all night. I can stay for a little while longer—” _forty-five minutes to be exact_ “—but I don’t want to sleep in a bathroom.” 

“At least you still _get_ to sleep...and eat...and breathe...!”

“Myrtle, I’m really sorry for what happened to you, but I can’t feel guilty for being alive just because _you’re_ not.”

“Merlin, you HORRIBLE person! You’re JUST like him! You’re cruel and cold and callous and you don’t _care_ about what happened to me!! You’re just pretending and you think I’m stupid enough to fall for it, but I WON’T, I tell you! I will NOT fall for your stupid game of seeing how gullible I am and—”

“What the hell? How am I just like someone you only talked to for the last ten seconds of your life? Do you even know the boy’s name?” 

“Maybe I would have learned it if I hadn’t DIED! Let’s see YOU try and get to know someone you just KILLED! You don’t have any friends, anyway. I can see why! You’re not nice! I could definitely see you killing someone you don’t care about! SNEAKY SNARKY SLYTHERIN!” 

 _Maybe I could kill someone and maybe I couldn’t. But it’s not her business either way._

I folded my arms across my chest and looked at Myrtle the way my parents looked at me when they were about to scold me. The power surge I felt from that gesture made me a bit queasy, given my inspiration.

“If you want me to stay here,” I warned, “you need to stop yelling at me. Quit throwing a tantrum like a baby.” 

Myrtle pouted and made a show of twisting and diving and twirling around the bathroom while sighing loudly—she even flew right through me once. That felt weird. It was like ice melting inside my torso and then suddenly vanishing as if it had never been there. 

“What do you want to talk about?” she asked finally, mustering up her most pathetic please-feel-bad-for-me voice.

“I don’t know,” I replied blandly. “Whatever you want.”

We made mindless small talk until my hour was up, trading stories about being bullied and how shitty most people were. The time went by surprisingly quickly. When it was time for me to leave, I fake-yawned and told Myrtle I needed to get going. She began shouting at me again about making fun of her, or trying to trick her, and how I was _just like that boy—_ who on Earth was she even talking about, anyway? Why would a boy ever enter a girls’ bathroom?

Maybe her recall was fuzzy. She told me she’d been dead for almost sixty years; that would surely dull one’s memory. I resolved to take her words with a grain of salt. After bidding her good night, talking over her temper tantrum, I turned around and snuck back to the dungeons.

“WHERE’RE MY FUCKING GALLEONS!!” I shouted as I burst into the Slytherin common room, to a torrent of hoots and hollers.

“How was it?”

“What did Myrtle do?” 

“Were you scared?”

“What’s she like?”

“Is the bathroom really gross? I’ve never gone in there!”

The questions came at me all at once. Considering that my Housemates normally ignored me, their sudden interest was overwhelming. I froze up momentarily; speaking was a struggle at first, as I attempted to wrap my brain around my peers’ dramatic change in behavior.

I told them everything that had happened, other than Myrtle’s tirade over that boy who may or may not have been a figment of her imagination. Something deep inside me told me to keep those details to myself. I didn’t even understand why I was doing it, but my intuition had never been wrong. I saw no reason to question it now. 

Ashlee and Monica fell to the floor laughing as I imitated Myrtle’s voice with sickening accuracy. Having people actually laugh _with_ me instead of _at_ me was staggering, and the rush of excitement that followed brought me to my knees. I hid it by doubling over and laughing as loudly as my Housemates, without telling them that I was cackling for a completely different reason. These new, exciting emotions were so overwhelming, I nearly cried.

My Housemates had never, ever expressed genuine interest in me before and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Some of them were in awe of my “patience and bravery” for going into that bathroom and dealing with Moaning Myrtle for an entire hour, and others were more interested in experiencing the ghost’s behavior without actually having to endure it firsthand.

I wasn’t sure if this event would lead them to enjoy my company in the longterm, or if it would merely be a fleeting moment where we actually had a common interest—either way, I wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. Which was long after midnight. I fell asleep with a smile on my face, still feeling the sensation of Monica slamming the ten Galleons into my hand and then patting me on the back. 

What a ride. 

*   *   *

My Housemates definitely treated me differently after that night. They weren’t altogether enthusiastic about interacting with me, but we could at least be cordial during classes and mealtimes without as much awkwardness as before. Some of them even asked me for help studying during the last week before finals. Just like choir practice, I wasn’t sure if my peers liked me or they simply wanted help from a smart person; but either way, I saw it as excellent practice for honing my social skills, which had definitely improved over the past year.

So had my realistic expectations about cultivating friendships with my classmates.

I had learned that it was never safe to get my hopes up about making friends, because everyone always liked other people more than me; so I decided to simply view each interaction as mere social practice. Nothing more. If I had no expectations, I couldn’t be disappointed.

With such a grim mindset, I also couldn’t be tempted to overreact to positive attention and scare people off—I vowed that Stephanie would never be a repeat performance. I didn’t even know what that bitch was up to these days, nor did I care. Anyone who mistreated me was not worth my effort. At least I could carry on a conversation with my Housemates once in a while.

And speaking of which, I still hadn’t figured out why half of me desperately wanted friends while the other half desperately wanted to be left alone. My confusion was immensely frustrating. I had at least realized that having people like me would take a lot of stress out of my life; I just couldn’t understand why. I was only twelve and not yet equipped to understand such complex matters, but I wished I could. Just because I was top of the class didn’t mean I had access to unlimited knowledge—though the concept was enticing. I wondered if maybe one day, when I was older, I would discover or invent a new branch of magic that allowed for the expansion of the mind, so it could retain superhuman amounts of information. Or maybe I could find a way to double my lifespan just so that I could learn more. Once I graduated from Hogwarts and left home, the world would be at my fingertips. I had no doubt that I would one day achieve great things if I worked hard enough. 

But until then, I had to buckle under and trudge through the rest of my childhood. If I could handle twelve years surrounded by constant hostility, what was another five? I finally felt strong now. I knew I could make it.


	9. Tom | 1997

Want to  
We can if we want to  
Lead you from behind you

—Mushroomhead ~ “Kill Tomorrow”

 

 _I stayed behind after the dinner party ended. I had waited all summer long to pose this burning question, and I knew Slughorn would be the only teacher I could ask without raising alarms._

_“Look sharp, Tom!” Slughorn exclaimed. “You don’t want to be caught out of bed after hours, and you a Prefect....”_

_“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”_

_“Ask away, then, m’boy, Ask away!”_

_“Sir, I wondered what you knew about...about Horcruxes?”_

_He hesitated. “Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?” He knew it wasn’t, but couldn’t bring himself to entertain any other option for his prized student._

_“Not exactly, sir. I came across the term while reading and I didn’t fully understand it.”_

_“No...well, you’d be hard-pressed to find a book at Hogwarts that’ll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom. That’s very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed.”_

_“But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you—sorry, I mean, if you can’t tell me, obviously—I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could—so I just thought I’d ask—”_

_I’d been preparing for this moment for weeks, crafting my words carefully to elicit the desired response from my favorite professor. Slughorn averted his eyes and fiddled with the ribbon on top of the box of crystallized pineapple I had given him during dinner to further warm him up to me._

_He was clearly struggling with his conscience over answering my question. Though unable to relate to such a silly emotion, I knew I had to play off of his reactions. I waited patiently for him to speak. It would not do to show my true motivations for starting this conversation._

_“Well,” he began after a long moment, “it can’t hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.”_

_“I don’t quite understand how that works, though, sir.” It took physical exertion to control the adrenaline flooding my veins. Slughorn, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice._

_“Well, you split your soul, you see, and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But, of course, existence in such a form—few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.”_

_“How do you split your soul?” My heart was racing. Slughorn’s words invigorated me so much that I had forgotten to keep up my pretense of an innocent student. And in that split second, I didn’t even care. It took a moment to steady myself and soften my posture, presenting an expression of thoughtfulness instead of hunger, but my gaze likely scorched the professor. He flinched ever so slightly, his eyes pleading with me to be an innocent student instead of a power-hungry murderer._

_“Well, you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole,” he warned me. “Splitting it is an act of violation; it is against nature.”_

_“But how do you do it?”_

_“By an act of evil—the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: he would encase the torn portion—”_

_“Encase? But how—”_

_“There is a spell, do not ask me, I don’t know! Do I look as though I have tried it—do I look like a killer?”_

_“No, sir, of course not,” I replied quickly. “I’m sorry...I didn’t mean to offend....” Teetering on the edge of disaster, I had to backpedal and stroke his ego some more._

_“Not at all, not at all, not offended. It’s natural to feel some curiosity about these things...wizards of a certain cailber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic....”_

_“Yes, sir. What I don’t understand, though—just out of curiosity—I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces? I mean, for instance, isnt seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn’t seven—”_

_“Merlin’s beard, Tom!” Slughorn yelped. “Seven! Isn’t it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case...bad enough to divide the soul...but to rip it into seven pieces....” Slughorn was now regarding me with horror in his eyes, clearly regretting the knowledge he’d just imparted to me. “Of course, this is all hypothetical, what we’re discussing, isn’t it? All academic....”_

_“Yes, sir, of course!” I replied silkily, trying to soothe Slughorn’s nerves. I breathed deeply and softened my gaze as we looked at each other. My heart was still thumping wildly._

_“But all the same, Tom...keep it quiet, what I’ve told—that’s to say, what we’ve discussed. People wouldn’t like to think we’ve been chatting about Horcruxes. It’s a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know...Dumbledore’s particularly fierce about it....”_

_“I won’t say a word, sir,” I promised. And I meant it. This information was for me, and me alone. No one else was worthy of my secret. And no one else was worthy of immortality._

- +  -  + -  +  - +  - 

Slughorn regretted telling me about Horcruxes as soon as I’d asked. I wold never forget the horror written all over his face, nor the fear I’d felt in that split second when I thought Slughorn would punish me for my questions and alert Headmaster Dippet. Slughorn had been keeping his guilt a secret for over fifty years, and Dumbledore—great Legilimens that he was—must have caught a glimpse of his memory. All these years later, he was now trying to convince Hermione Granger to loosen the man’s tongue, hoping that questions posed by a sweet little girl would convince him to let his guard down. 

Dumbledore had brought Slughorn back to Hogwarts to try and get him to share what he’d done. He was determined to destroy me, once and for all.

If Slughorn ever repeated this information to Dumbledore, and the Headmaster somehow found all my Horcruxes before I could stop him....

This was a problem. This was a _huge_ problem.

I was certainly protected through the diary. I could repeat the process from 1993 with another hapless Hogwarts student if necessary; but if Dumbledore destroyed my other Horcruxes and only left me with the diary, I could easily be killed if my current body were destroyed and someone obliterated the diary as well. I could not allow that to happen. I had already come this far; it couldn’t all be for nothing. It just couldn’t. 

But what could I really do? Draco and Margo were watching Hermione as much as possible. We didn’t know if she would succeed in getting the truth out of Slughorn, so it was perhaps illogical to waste my energy worrying about a catastrophe that may not even happen. I needed to simply watch events unfold and adapt accordingly. 

In the meantime, my Ministry plants were performing well. Lucius and Yaxley continued cozying up to Fudge, and they also became better acquainted with the Gilmores. The two Obliviators occasionally stepped outside the acceptable bounds of their job by Obliviating people who suspected my slow infiltration of the Ministry—but, of course, no one else knew about it except me. And that was enough for the time being. 

*   *   *

Though frustrated that I could not return to Hogwarts, I still enjoyed reading about the school. I continued to save Draco and Margo’s letters after Lucius mailed them to me.

Unlike Draco had done at her age, Margo was actually forming meaningful friendships with some of her fellow Slytherins. She and Lulu were still best friends, and the older girl helped her study on occasion. “On occasion” meant once every few weeks or so, if Margo had a specific question, because Lulu was quickly becoming boy-crazy. Margo told us that the girl’s grades were slipping as she had begun putting less effort into her studies and more into her prospective suitors. At the rate she was going, she’d likely need to start taking a contraceptive potion every morning. I was not impressed.

Margo’s other friends weren’t nearly as wild as Lulu. Sinjin and Snappette were now engaged, and Margo’s attraction to Sinjin appeared to be waning. She didn’t sound upset when she wrote home about the engagement, and even expressed excitement when they told her she’d be invited to the wedding. As she’d been Lulu’s best friend for a while now, Margo had gotten friendlier with the couple, and an invitation to their wedding seemed appropriate. Both of them were confident that they could begin working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement upon graduating from Hogwarts, so long as they passed their NEWTs with the required scores. 

Apparently, Margo had also overheard the couple telling Lulu that they were considering becoming Death Eaters. As potential Ministry employees, that got my attention immediately. I instructed Margo to spend as much time with them as she could without looking suspicious. _What were they like?_ I had Lucius ask her in a letter. _Were they loyal?_ _Did they seem like quick thinkers? Could they be as conniving and ruthless as I needed them to be? Did they share my views on the Wizarding world?_  

The answer to those questions was a resounding yes. 

Snappette was more cheerful than her fiancé, who was a bit aloof and hardly ever smiled, but she could blow a fuse and become absolutely brutal under the right circumstances. She had once sent a fifth-year boy to the hospital for harassing her long after she’d rejected his advances—he’d had enchanted cuts and boils all over his body that had taken a week to heal. The boy not only left Snappette alone afterwards, but he also began running in the opposite direction whenever he saw her. Even if it made him late for class. Margo found this hilarious and wrote all about it in her letters.

Yes, this couple definitely seemed to possess the skills I required of my ranks. They would need to come to Malfoy Manor over winter break, where I would initiate them if I approved of their character. That was still two months away, but I could wait. The prospect of having two more plants at the Ministry left me almost giddy with excitement. 

Margo had a lot to say about her other friends as well. Sheena was a loud, bubbly class clown who would do anything for her friends, but Merlin help anyone who betrayed her. Margo told us that Sheena had become chummy with a first-year Hufflepuff who had later rejected Sheena’s friendship because she’d heard that all Slytherins were evil. Sheena sent the girl to an infirmary with boils and a bat-bogey hex. This more than likely solidified the younger girl’s prejudices, but Sheena clearly didn’t care. She would not be stepped on.

Sofia was more like Margo—a quiet introvert who was emerging from a difficult childhood and trying to find herself. The girls had quickly bonded over this. Sofia hadn’t lost her parents, but she did struggle with severe mental illnesses that impacted her mood. Margo alluded to that being the reason she and Sofia had gravitated toward Sheena the Class Clown, as an antidote to their suffering. They all balanced each other well.

Chicky was part of the group, and yet she wasn’t. Margo’s description of their dynamic painted Chicky as a friend of the family who didn’t live in the family home, but was welcome anytime. The girl was very flashy in her appearance—pink being her favorite color—but she was only loud and obnoxious _some_ of the time. There were moments where she went off and marched to the beat of her own drum, studying and eating meals by herself, and then rejoining the group unexpectedly after a few weeks. Her behavior didn’t bother Margo and the others, though; they accepted the pink-and-green-clad girl’s quirkiness and included her whenever she wished to be included. 

*   *   * 

While Margo’s letters were typically lighthearted, Draco’s carried a dark undercurrent shrouded by a thick layer of bravado. He was the most popular boy in Slytherin House, strutting about the castle as if he owned it, and yet it was clear that he was terrified underneath it all. Unlike his classmates, he knew for sure that I had returned and would increase my grip on the Wizarding world over time. Draco was not the type to bare his soul, but I knew he secretly wished for someone to talk to about these issues. 

He lacked the luxury of ignoring the _Prophet_ and assuming that articles about me were pure sensationalism. He couldn’t tell anyone the truth, or act as though he knew more than other citizens, or I would torture him. The weight of his secrets was crashing down on him. 

He also lacked the luxury of innocence. He couldn’t behave like a normal child and share his thoughts with his peers. Though he was the son of a Death Eater and knew a handful of others, there was no one he could trust—especially since Margo and her friends wanted nothing to do with him. They had looked down on Draco from the beginning, noting his immaturity and haughty behavior.

His loneliness was written all over his pathetic face—and his letters.

When Draco wrote home, he masked his fears by boasting about intimidating classmates, insignificant reasons he’d won points for Slytherin, and shallow praise he received from professors. He’d always done this, but the tone of his letters now carried a subtle sense of urgency. “ _Please focus on these lighthearted matters instead of my crushing agony!”_ he seemed to say. _“Look at me being petty, because NOTHING IS HORRIBLY WRONG and I can afford to have my usual spoiled-brat concerns!”_  

While at Hogwarts, he was pretending that I wasn’t back—like he was supposed to—but it seemed he was also pleading with a diety to turn back time and change the events in the Chamber of Secrets. I alluded to such folly during a Death Eater meeting, after which Severus shared that he was torn between being proud of Draco’s academic prowess vs. wanting to smack him for his juvenile behavior. (I was always interested in the latter.)

Draco appeared to know just how far to push his professors before getting into _real_ trouble, especially since Lupin was no longer teaching, but his classmates were another matter altogether. Since his first year, he had proudly lived up to his reputation of being a bully, inciting altercation after altercation and almost always getting what he wanted. Sometimes with help from Lucius, if a professor got involved. Daddy was always there to protect his precious baby boy from trouble—for now, at least.

In keeping with his desperate need to appear normal, he (yet again) taunted Hermione for her Muggle ancestry, to make her feel even worse after she’d done somewhat poorly on a Defense exam where Draco had excelled. And by “poorly” he clarified that she’d received an 85% instead of 100%. So tragic. 

“Maybe if you’d been born into a better family, you wouldn’t have to worry about bad grades!” he’d jeered. And then, to pack an even heavier punch, he reminded her that being Mudblood-lovers had gotten her two best friends killed. Which side did she really want to be on? 

Hermione had retaliated, screaming in his face that he was a pathetic little boy whom no one even liked. Didn’t he have anything better to do than insult someone who wanted nothing to do with him? 

Draco was enraged—one, because she’d fought back, and two, because he knew deep down that she was right. He rationalized his anger in his letter home, with statements such as, _“Who does she think she is? I’m better than she is, simply by nature of my birth!”_ and _“That Mudblood bitch should be bowing to me!”_

He was clearly implying that he wouldn’t actually have to do anything to prove himself to me when the time came. He knew that _he_ would one day be bowing to _me,_ and so he tried to mask his fear with notions of superiority. His transparency was laughable. 

On another occasion, young Malfoy had interrupted a conversation between two classmates, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood. A rumor had spread that Neville fancied Luna, but she was ever the lady and pretended she didn’t know. She never betrayed her feelings one way or another, but she was definitely friendly with the boy. Draco decided to exploit this one Saturday afternoon during a Hogsmeade visit.

His trio snuck up behind the two of them while they were in The Three Broomsticks with Hermione, and began making obnoxiously loud kissing noises. The trio ignored Draco’s childishness until he all but pushed Neville and Luna’s faces together, telling them to put on a show for him and his goons. His hands were inches from their heads before Hermione stood up and threw her butterbeer all over his face. Neville and Luna simply stared in shock. Draco screamed that _his father would hear about this_ —words he seemed to scream every other day—but all Lucius did when he read the excerpt was roll his eyes and pass me the parchment while shaking his head. He didn’t even read the rest of the letter. 

If I were Draco, I would not have written home about such humiliation. He was making himself look even worse by announcing all his slips and falls. He was so blinded by his spoiled nature that he actually believed that he deserved sympathy for facing the consequences of his actions. I wondered if, in some bastardized manner, he was trying to emulate me by acting like he should be above reproach. Unfortunately for him, such behavior would only take him so far. And he knew it.

Draco may have been full of bravado, but he was not an idiot. He was an extremely bright boy who knew, underneath his lackadaisical attitude, that serious responsibilities were around the corner. His little quips to his classmates about his importance were not so much about making them respect him; they were a plea to be taken seriously. A plea for protection.

I didn’t have to be a mental health professional to know that Draco was shaking in his boots.

Draco not only knew that I had returned, but he had also been forced to live with me for months. He had suffered under my Cruciatus curse for simply distracting me from my work. He had seen Death Eaters come in and out of his home on a regular basis. He had met his deranged aunt and uncle without a moment’s notice, right after I’d broken them out of prison. He had seen my effect on his family—the way they tiptoed around me, deathly afraid of angering me and hardly daring to even speak in my presence. For any little boy, seeing his revered father trembling before another man in his own home had surely left an impact.

Years later, Draco still carried that burden. I was no longer living at Malfoy Manor, but I knew its inhabitants all felt my presence there. And even though he didn’t know I was reading his letters, he may have felt as if I were somehow following him around Hogwarts, making sure he was up to snuff. 

Whether he was up to snuff remained debatable. He may have spent years acting a childish little imp, but he was almost of age and therefore almost ready to be initiated as a Death Eater. 

His fear of what I’d ask of him was stifling. He had met Death Eaters and overheard snippets of meetings, but he had no idea, firsthand, how demanding I would be. All he knew was that I stressed out his parents to the point that his mother fought back tears almost every time I stood up to leave the Manor after a Death Eater meeting, and his father refused to speak for hours. I saw this scene in their minds every time I entered their home.

Lucius and Narcissa tried to hide their fear more when Draco was home, hoping to shield him for as long as they could, but we all knew that time was almost up. They, like me, knew exactly how scared their son was. And they hated that they were powerless to help him. Hence all the enabling.

I wondered if Draco would even succeed as a Death Eater, or if he would die in a scuffle somewhere after biting off more than he could chew. It wasn’t like I would give him a heads-up over how difficult it would be to serve me properly. He may have figured out that I sometimes gave my ranks near-impossible assignments just so I could torture them when they failed, given my gleeful, demented laughter emanating from the meeting room every so often. I had a feeling Draco would spend a lot of time suffering under my wand if he didn’t get his act together. 

It was interesting to imagine what kind of Death Eater Draco would be. He could stay as predictable as ever and grow up to be an utter disappointment; or he could surprise us all and mature dramatically. There was no way of knowing right now.

I found it ironic that Draco would have done anything he could to shirk his responsibilities to me, and yet a handful of Hogwarts students seemed interested in joining me on their own. Some probably would love to be in his shoes. There were whispers of my return all around Hogwarts, with very few students feeling sure one way or another—Dumbledore, Snape, and the Malfoy children were likely the only ones who knew the truth. I wondered how long it would be before the rest of them stopped living in denial. 

*   *   * 

Though most of Hogwarts—and the Wizarding community at large—still refused to believe that I was really back, the Order of the Phoenix was very much alive. They were recruiting as much as I was, and spreading their message to anyone who would listen. They were extremely vocal in the media, trying to convince everyone to mobilize and eliminate the threat I posed.

They even encouraged Hogwarts students to “do their part” in building the resistance: they were creating pamphlets and having prospective members at Hogwarts pass them out to all who were interested. Nymphadora Tonks, as the most outgoing and nurturing member of the group, took charge of the activity and began communicating with Hogwarts through Hermione, Neville, and Luna. The three students were clearly preparing to join after graduating, considering their current activism. As the founding members of Dumbledore’s Army, of course they would want to join the adults in their fight against me. And they had Dumbledore’s full support. 

Outside of Tonks spewing her propaganda, Sirius and Remus were the loudest of the group. They talked to reporters and gave radio interviews whenever asked to do so; while Arthur and Molly Weasley chose to remain in the shadows. Bill, the eldest Weasley child, had also joined recently. His brother Charlie had expressed interest as well, but his parents had convinced him to stay out of the fray. “If none of us survives this storm in England, at least you’ll be safe in Romania,” they’d told him. He thus continued his work with dragons, devouring every scrap of news and yet remaining outside the proverbial line of fire. At least there was _one_ Weasley I didn’t have to worry about.

Most of my attention was on Remus and Sirius. Sirius was enraged that he and his best friend were painted as vain and attention-seeking in their penchant for talking to the press. He insisted, over and over, that his message wasn’t about _him;_ it was a fervent desire to stop me and keep the public as informed as possible—something the Minister refused to do. Remus supported his friend’s statements.

As an Order member, Snape shared all of this information with us during Death Eater meetings. We listened with rapt attention, taking note of the Hogwarts students the Order was attempting to recruit. We would later make plans to pick them all off when they were outside the safety of the castle’s walls—if they weren’t immediately shuffled off into hiding, that is. I wouldn’t put it past the group to have already set up safehouses with top-notch security. Half of them were Aurors, anyway...or former Aurors, like Mad-Eye Moody. 

Moody was a turbulent man. He’d fought on the front lines during my first rise, killing and imprisoning as many Death Eaters and sympathizers as he could. Those experiences had colored his worldview to the point that he’d virtually forgotten how to be happy. Severus told us that Moody often fought with Remus and Sirius over how much they revealed to reporters; the men argued about the line between alerting the citizens and compromising the Order’s intelligence. The most paranoid member of the Order, Moody always cast a cloud of doom and gloom over the organization. He constantly reminded them that, as determined and optimistic as they sometimes grew over their activism, the threat they faced was dire and there was no guarantee that any of them would even survive the conflict. I heartily concurred, much to the amusement of my followers.

Outside of bringing in new recruits, there wasn’t much more we could do for the time being—it was still too early. Severus was bringing us all the intelligence he could, and we continually strategized on how best to break the Order apart from the inside, but we were mostly just biding our time. I didn’t mind; I enjoyed watching our numbers grow and hearing all the news Severus brought. I knew our slow and deliberate preparations would pay off at some point.

*   *   * 

The end of the academic year brought both immense relief and extreme confusion. Hermione had not succeeded in retrieving Slughorn’s dark secret, as his desire to save face outweighed his desire to protect the Wizarding world from me. Ever the Slytherin, he was.

I was certain that Hermione would double down her efforts at the start of her seventh year, but I at least had a few months where I didn’t have to worry about the pesky girl. I would only kill her—and him—if she succeeded in retrieving the damning information.

Sinjin and Snappette graduated from Hogwarts and promised to stay in touch with the Malfoys. This pleased me, seeing as they would likely begin working at the Ministry soon, and could potentially become Death Eaters. So, in that regard, I thought I could finally relax for a while. 

The upset came from none other than Severus Snape. After the first Death Eater meeting of the summer, the mysterious man came to me with a shocking announcement: he would no longer be teaching at Hogwarts. Dumbledore had fired him.

“What on Earth has he fired you for?” I demanded.

“He suspects that my loyalties have swung back to you,” he answered gravely.

“Your loyalties have never _not_ been with me, Severus. Isn’t that right?!”

“Yes, my Lord. I assure you that I—”

“Severus, you may be a loyal servant, but you are also supposed to be a double agent. You’re supposed to be gathering intelligence from Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. If Dumbledore doesn’t trust you, how do I know if the Order still trusts you? Will they revoke your membership? And if they do, how can I still keep you as a Death Eater? How can I trust you to serve me properly if you cannot execute all of your tasks—most importantly, keeping the confidence of the Headmaster?”

I was fuming. Severus kept his composure. This angered me more than his news, since I wanted him scared. 

“I am still a member of the Order, my Lord. Dumbledore believes that I am on his side, but many parents have written to him to complain this past school year. They are certain that you have returned and that I am only at Hogwarts to relay information to you and make most of the students miserable. They have threatened to pull their children out of Hogwarts if I continue teaching, regardless of the subject; but you _do_ know that tensions have increased since I switched from Potions to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Many people think I’m only teaching that class to sway students _in favor of_ the Dark Arts. Dumbledore’s firing me was purely a political move.”

I abruptly turned away from Severus and began pacing around the meeting room. How could this have happened?

Severus was a powerful Occlumens—so skilled that even I could not penetrate his mind. Something I desperately wanted to do right now. I wanted to know what he was thinking, what he was planning, and whose bloody side he was really on. I needed to know, now more than ever.

What would he do for work now? And how could he be a competent double agent if the opposing side did not trust him? I almost didn’t care that Dumbledore still had faith in the man—if Dumbledore had been forced to fire him, he wouldn’t be able to retrieve nearly as much intelligence. I had no idea how to fix this problem.

“My Lord, I am still fully capable of giving you the information you need,” he insisted after a long silence. “I have played my part well inside the Order—Dumbledore is not part of the organization, so he cannot see my interactions with the group; but I assure you that I have them all under my spell, as it were. Many of them don’t want to trust me, but they trust Dumbledore and so believe it is their duty to honor his judgment. I am forever your loyal servant.” He bowed his head respectfully.

“As you should be!” I scolded. I would not acknowledge this puerile flattery meant to calm me down. 

“Yes, my Lord. I understand.”

“Good. You are dismissed.”

I resumed pacing around the room for a while, scaring the Malfoys quite a bit, before I returned home. 

I doubted I would ever fully trust Severus Snape. The man had been in close proximity to Albus Dumbledore for fifteen years as a professor, and there was no telling how much the Headmaster had swayed his opinons. I could not deny that Dumbledore was an exceptionally powerful wizard; his ability to influence others even rivaled mine. 

Severus was powerful as well. He would never have become a Death Eater otherwise. Add that to his exceptional Occlumency skills, and I never knew what surprises he would bring to the table or when. Whatever employment he sought, I certainly didn’t want him at the Ministry, where he could get lost in the system and blend in like the chameleon that he was.

There were few things that rankled me like having less than total control over a situation. And Severus often reminded me of how easy it was to lose that iron grip I needed. I tried not to dwell on this fact and instead focus on all my accomplishments of the past few years: I had resurrected from my diary, built my own home with magic, recruited a few Ministry employees, and incited a nationwide frenzied debate over my existence and whereabouts. Surely, I could afford to be at least _somewhat_ optimistic. 

*   *   *

I spent the summer making plans for the Ministry, along with more complex arrangements for when my numbers would grow. Since Wizarding Britain’s general consensus kept oscillating between certainty of my return and lack thereof, I could still have fun confusing everyone. I continued the process of displaying dead traitors’ Dark Marks once I’d killed them, and then chuckling to myself about the ensuing disputes raging in letters to _The Daily Prophet._

 _“There is no way He Who Must Not Be Named has returned!”_ quipped one reader. _“There are no mass uprisings anywhere, and the only people disappearing or being murdered are his Death Eaters! Why would he kill his own followers and display that ghastly tattoo for us all to gawk at? A vigilante killer is sending a message that You Know Who is gone and his goons will pay for their crimes! If You Know Who were returning to power, wouldn’t he want to make up for lost time and take over as soon as possible? That’s what he did twenty-odd years ago and I will never forget it! Though I’ve heard many arguments on the subject, the atmosphere doesn’t feel nearly as ominous as it did back then. He Who Must Not Be Named is surely gone. No one is so powerful that they can come back to life after being hit with a Killing Curse!”_

 _“I think he might be biding his time and killing his traitors,”_ postulated another citizen. _“We never had a mass breakout from Azkaban before that one in 1993, when those four Death Eaters escaped. Apart from Sirius Black, no one had ever managed to break out of the prison before. You Know Who is the only person who could command enough power to orchestrate such an event. What other explanation is there? It’s too coincidental and I’m not buying this nonsense about a vigilante killer. And anyway, why else would the Order of the Phoenix have resurfaced and made themselves known as an organization fighting against the Death Eaters? The vigilante story is nothing but a fairytale that people are telling themselves because they are too afraid of the truth. You Know Who has returned. I am sure of it. He is probably just biding his time.”_

Reader Number Two was clearly the smarter one. Not that he could do anything about it. If he were still alive, he would be one of the people saying, “I told you so!” when I finally was ready to take over. But that was a long way off. I had much to accomplish beforehand. 

I wanted Death Eaters swarming every department at the Ministry. Most of them would pose as unassuming model citizens, winning the trust of their colleagues, and even going so far as to denounce my views if asked their opinion on the matter. Of course, there would always be suspicions about certain employees—Yaxley and Malfoy would never be able to achieve such a feat of camouflage, but it wouldn’t matter in the end. As long as I could place enough of my followers inside the institution, I would achieve my goals in the long run. 

And speaking of Azkaban, I decided it was time to free Wormtail. As little as I thought of the man, he _had_ protected my wand. Regardless of his motivations for serving me, he still performed his tasks reasonably well. I flew to the prison late one night and brought him to a random location in the countryside.

“You’re on your own now,” I told him. “Freedom is your reward for returning my wand in 1993; but what you do now is your responsibility. I’ll see you at the next meeting.” I then Disapparated without another word.

Wormtail arrived at Malfoy Manor in decent shape the following week, so he’d obviously found a place to hang his coat. 

*   *   * 

As Margo and Draco returned to school in September, I was focusing on the activities of the Order. Severus continued telling me everything that happened in their meetings. So far, they had made battle preparations in case of a Death Eater uprising and had begun searching for this supposed vigilante killer rounding up my followers. They had even gone so far as to ask Severus if he was the one killing Death Eaters, since he had _seen the error in his ways!_ That made me laugh out loud, much to his surprise. He wasn’t quite sure how to react to my mirth, which only amused me further. It was not often that my followers saw their great leader in peals of laughter.

Severus landed a job at The Leaky Cauldron in early October. As he knew some of the staff, they were able to shoe him in as a manager, where he could work behind the scenes. Though he had seemed to enjoy teaching well enough, I think he was secretly relieved to be working alone more than with others; he did not take pleasure in petty small talk. 

Not much was happening at Hogwarts. Margo was still in the Slug Club, Draco still wasn’t, and he was still annoyed about it. He was also annoyed because he had not been made Head Boy. I thought he should have been grateful to still be a Prefect after all his antics, especially siding with Umbridge during his fifth year. But alas, nothing was ever good enough for the spoiled young Malfoy. 

The only worthwhile subject Draco wrote about was Hermione. As I had predicted, the new Head Girl was back at it trying to convince Slughorn to tell her about our Horcrux discussion—but now, since she’d been pestering him for over a year, he was developing an aversion to _any_ interactions with her, no matter how innocuous. He knew she would use any dialogue as a segue into her motivations for kissing up to him. By the time winter break arrived, he’d completely stopped calling on her in class and only acknowledged her when necessary. And he made it clear that he did not enjoy these exchanges.

Draco could almost feel her physical exertion as she tried to contain herself from raising her hand in Slughorn’s class. It broke her heart knowing the professor would ignore her enthusiasm simply because he was too afraid of being honest with her.

Draco gleefully discussed her new simpering demeanor in his letters. Though there were still a few months before Hermione would be out of Hogwarts—and away from Slughorn—for good, my fears over her behavior were rapidly fading. The wave of relief I felt at this development was the best Christmas present I could possibly receive.

My secret was, more than likely, safe forever.

*   *   *

Thanks to my talents in Legilimency, I was able to discover a recurring fight in the Malfoy household: a debate over Draco’s potential as a Death Eater. His parents remembered well the epic screaming match from Christmas of 1995.

Draco was still full of bravado, too young to truly grasp the magnitude of joining my ranks and therefore relishing the admiration he received from his goons when he bragged about his “skills” with which he’d “achieve enormous success” in life. He never explicitly stated where that success would come from, but Crabbe and Goyle understood his insinuation and egged him on. This didn’t shock me—they were sons of Death Eaters themselves.                                                                                                                                                                

Lucius was torn between pride and fear: wanting his son to follow in his footsteps and help improve the Malfoy reputation, while also fearing for his son’s life because he knew the boy was as spineless as he. He flip-flopped between both extremes during fight after fight with Narcissa. 

I explored their minds many times, wanting to understand the full scope of the issue. Would they fight me and die in the process? Would they try to negotiate the terms of Draco’s duties to me, to keep him as safe as possible? Would they do anything necessary to protect their son, or would they bite their tongues and offer him to me obediently? Narcissa was ruminating over a past dispute on the subject during a meeting as she tried unsuccessfully to remain present.

 _“Lucius, he’s not strong enough!” Narcissa croaked, with tears streaming down her face. “He’s just a boy! My baby! My only son! He—”_

_“The Dark Lord cares not!” Lucius snapped. “When he chooses to recruit someone, there is no backing out! Draco either follows the Dark Lord or is killed. Do you really want to sacrifice our son just to protect him from that which I’ve been experiencing since I was only slightly older than he is? The Dark Lord is being uncommonly patient on the subject—I’m truly surprised he hasn’t tried to recruit Draco already. He hasn’t even discussed the issue with us!”_

_“So maybe he won’t! Maybe he doesn’t even_ want _to recruit Draco! He’s not the strongest person—”_

_“Don’t be daft, Narcissa! Don’t you realize that we’ve likely only spared Draco this long because we housed the Dark Lord when he returned, and helped him open the Chamber of Secrets? If we hadn’t—”_

_“Don’t even go there! I can’t bear it!”_

_“You’ll have to bear it! We both will! We have no other choice! I will try to stall the Dark Lord further if he approaches me about initiating Draco, but I can make no promises that I will sway him. The Dark Lord is the one convincing others, not being convinced BY_ _others. You know as well as I that it is not in his nature to show mercy.”_

 _“He’s just a boy....”_

_“Almost a man—in the eyes of the Dark Lord, and in the eyes of the Wizarding world. He graduates next year and will then begin working. That’s not what ‘just a boy’ does. You’re talking about him like he’s still twelve! He needs to accept his responsibilities! And, for Merlin’s sake, if we tried to hide him or persuade the Dark Lord not to recruit him, he’d kill us all!”_

_Narcissa doubled over and clutched her stomach as her body wracked with sobs._

_“There must be something we can do, Lucius; I’m so scared for him. If he had the stamina for the Dark Lord’s work, he wouldn’t be bragging like he’s been doing for years. He’s overcompensating. If we just talked to him about it—”_

_“And said what, exactly?_ Come here, son, we’d like to discuss your impending Death Eater initiation! It’s not as bad as it looks! All you have to do is—” 

_“Don’t you condescend to me, Lucius! He’s not cut out for this like you are!”_

_“It doesn’t matter. I know the Dark Lord will recruit him soon, so we may as well prepare ourselves.”_

_Narcissa’s loud wails gradually turned to sniffles as she attempted to regain her composure. “Just—just protect him, Lucius, please. Do whatever you can.”_

_“If it doesn’t put our family in danger, you know I will.” Lucius folded his wife into a hug and did his best to comfort her._

It had now been forty-eight hours since that fight, and Narcissa’s composure was still not what it normally was. 

I’d known that Narcissa was not Death Eater material as soon as I met her, but I’d allowed her to live because she was marrying Lucius and I’d required a Malfoy heir for my ranks. Instead of sobbing violently all these years later, she should have been grateful that I’d spared her the responsibilities of her sister and husband. That, along with her hosting my meetings, was the only reason I allowed her a seat at my table. The woman had no idea how lucky she was. 

And her husband was correct: I would be initiating Draco within the next year or two. But, of course, I wouldn’t show his parents the mercy of telling them so, to give them time to emotionally prepare; I’d spring the task on them when I thought the boy was ready, and not a moment later.

Narcissa should have considered herself fortunate I didn’t kill her for even _thinking_ of concealing her son from me. 

*   *   *

Shortly before coming home for Christmas, Margo wrote home to say that Sinjin and Snappette would be marrying in the summer of 1998. In addition, they would begin working at the Ministry after graduating. Everyone knew of Cornelius Fudge’s reputation for favoring Purebloods, so these two would surely do well in their professions.

Since they had also expressed interest in becoming Death Eaters, I told the Malfoys to invite them over to the Manor after Christmas. There, I would assess them and see if they were worthy of joining my ranks. (The Malfoys also invited me over for Christmas dinner, but I declined. I didn’t want to witness another dramatic escapade like the one from previous year. I likely would refuse all of their invitations until Draco learned to behave himself and stopped provoking Margo.) 

Sinjin and Snappette were exactly as Margo had described them. I asked them why they wanted to join my ranks, and they told me that they wanted to help reshape the Wizarding world according to my vision. (It was actually the Malfoys’ and Blacks’ vision that I was just spitting back at them to get them to follow my orders, but they didn’t need to know that.)

“Do you both understand that if you take the Mark, you are sworn to follow my orders for life? Any insubordination will result in torture or death.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” they both mumbled quietly.

“Good. Now, Margo tells me that you are looking to begin work at the Ministry in January. Is this still true? 

“Yes, my Lord,” said Snappette. “We interviewed with a man named Yaxley in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement last week. He told us that that we would likely begin working under him once he did some research into our backgrounds. We’re anticipating his owl within the next few days.”

“Then you realize that you absolutely must cement your positions at the Ministry.” 

“Of course. We intend to,” Sinjin replied. 

“Excellent. I am planning a slow and steady takeover, unlike my sudden rise to power which you undoubtedly know nearly killed me years ago. I will accomplish this by slowly planting more and more Death Eaters in the Ministry until we are in the overwhelming majority. The opposition won’t even know what hit them. You see now, why you two will have an especially important role here.”

“Yes, my Lord. What will our first assignment be?”

“For now, simply learn how to do your jobs. During meetings, you will tell me all you learn and everything you see at the Ministry. You need to learn all the ins and outs of your profession so that you can discover its weak spots. Report those to me and we will proceed from there.”

“My Lord,” Snappette interjected, “should we also be looking for other potential recruits?” 

“Not yet,” I told her. “I appreciate your determination, but not yet. We will cross that bridge when we come to it. So far, I have four Death Eaters in the Ministry—including your soon-to-be boss, Yaxley.”

They gasped in surprise. The older man was clearly playing his part well.

“I am more interested in slowly draining power from the Ministry without anyone knowing,” I continued, “and less concerned in how many people are helping me accomplish this. I prefer quality over quantity. Should you prove yourselves worthy in this task, you will find that I might entrust you with more power than some of my other followers—I may send you on more challenging, dangerous missions; or, yes, looking for new recruits. But not at this time. You are barely adults and only now making your own way out of your parents’ care. You must prove your competence and independence in the coming months before anything else. Do you understand?”

They both nodded. 

“Fabulous. Now, kneel before me and extend your left arms.” 

They obeyed, and I branded them with the Dark Mark. I smirked as I watched them pretend the process didn’t cause them pain. 

“Your left forearms will burn each time I summon you,” I explained, “and if you need to summon me, simply press your fingers to your Dark Marks and I will Apparate to your location.” 

“So...is the Dark Mark a Protean charm?” Sinjin asked.

“Sort of,” I replied before chuckling at Snappette, who was busy admiring her new tattoo. She stopped abruptly and dropped her arm to her side as she realized I was looking.

“No need to hide your enthusiasm, Miss Shadowstar,” I laughed. “This is what I expect of you. As long as you don’t let the novelty of the Mark distract you, of course.”

“I won’t, my Lord.” Snappette chewed on her lower lip and stared at the floor in an effort to hide her mortification.

The Malfoy family had witnessed this entire scene, but had wisely remained silent until the initiation was over. Lucius and Narcissa congratulated the young couple and invited them to stay a little while longer. We all ate dinner at their table that night, trading stories of our experiences at Hogwarts and the Ministry and bouncing ideas off each other on how to improve the Wizarding world. (Draco and Margo looked like they wanted to join the discussion, but understood that it was not their place as children. They only talked to Sinjin and Snappette when the discussion veered off to more neutral topics, and the four young wizards all gravitated toward each other.) It was an immensely productive evening and I went home in a more cheerful mood than I’d been in a long time. I looked forward to having Sinjin and Snappette take their places at the Ministry, and seeing what the year of 1998 would bring. Surely, with six stealthy Death Eaters hiding in plain sight inside our government, I could only attain further success. I couldn’t wait to achieve it.


	10. Alex | Summer 2 (2000)

Do I really want this  
Sometimes I scare myself, I just can't let it go  
Can you believe it  
Everything happens for reasons I just don't know  
I don't care about anyone else but me  
  
—Drowning Pool ~ “Tear Away”

 

My family was in a strange mood when they picked me up from King’s Cross station—they looked like they were pretending to be happy while carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. I kept asking them what was wrong, but they waved me off and told me they just hadn’t slept well the night before. That had been true, but not the whole story. They didn’t tell me the truth until we were back home in America. 

My paternal grandmother had just died. And my father was losing it.

His own father had walked out on the family when he was fourteen, so he’d made sure to always keep in contact with his mother, even though she was too wrapped up in self-pity to adequately care for her children. That was also why I’d never had much of a relationship with her. I didn’t even cry at her funeral.

I felt extremely awkward in my itchy black dress, sitting in between my parents as they sobbed through the service. I wasn’t sure what to do. I tried to make myself cry, but the tears simply wouldn’t come. Morgan at least sniffled a few times; though she was probably crying more over our parents’ sadness than her own. Like me, she had barely known our grandmother beyond a few short weekend visits as little kids. She held our mother’s hand until the funeral was over.

“What’s going on with you?” my mother croaked through her tears after we all Flooed back home. “You’ve looked nothing but bored and annoyed since we told you about Grandma Pearl’s death. Are you even a _little_ bit sad?”

I twitched and took a step back, barely aware of my father trudging upstairs and slamming the bedroom door.

“What?” I demanded. “I—I don’t know what to feel. I barely even knew her—” 

“Your father and I have been sobbing all weekend, and it hasn’t even occurred to you to express concern for US? You know _us,_ Alex. We’re your bloody parents! Show some support, please!”

“I— _what?_ What do you want me to say?”

“What any _normal person_ would say when someone they love is grieving! How about a hug, or a kiss, or offering to be more helpful around the house?! Anything but standing there and acting... _inconvenienced!”_

“Are you seriously telling me that even when I’m completely silent, I’m _still_ doing something wrong?! Can I ever do _anything_ right to you?! Or maybe I should die, too! I can’t picture you guys crying at _my_ funeral; all you do is yell at me! You make _me_ cry all the time and you don’t try to comfort _me!_ What on Earth do  _I_ have to be sad about?” 

 _SMACK._ “We just had a death in the family, and all you think about is yourself?! Stop playing the victim!” 

“What the hell, Mum?! I’m not even _doing_ anything!”

“That’s the whole POINT, Alexandra! When a relative dies, the rest of the family comforts one another! They don’t stand off in the corner, sucking in their cheeks and scowling like a brat! Half the people at the funeral were making comments about your standoffish attitude! That was the _last_ thing Dad and I needed to deal with! Can’t you stop acting out in public just ONCE?!”

That comment hurt worse than the slap. 

I hadn’t felt inconvenienced. I hadn’t felt like an entitled brat forced to suffer through a boring event. Only a spoiled child, who always got their own way, would feel victimized during a relative’s funeral. I wasn’t like that. I knew better than to have felt slighted, and I had been proud of myself for being able to recognize that the funeral hadn’t been about me.

Still, I’d felt awkward and unsure of how to act. I had been _so_ determined to behave properly, as I always seemed to have the worst meltdowns in public and I was now trying to mature, but it didn’t seem worth it. What was the point of expending so much energy trying to act like a good person when it didn’t even work? How on Earth could I look rude by simply standing still, quiet and expressionless? 

I needed to prove my point. I needed to prove my innocence. 

“Mum, I get it that you’re a little emotional because Grandma Pearl just died...maybe you were just expecting me to misbehave and so you assumed I was...but I promise I wasn’t doing anything. I felt _awkward._ And my dress is really itchy. I was trying to copy everyone else, and pretend that my dress wasn’t uncomfortable. I didn’t know _what_ to do. That’s not the same thing as scowling at everyone!” 

“Yeah, right. You don’t see yourself. The look on your face was absolutely _ugly._ No one wanted to approach you with such a puss on your face.”

“I made a point to _relax my face_ so it wouldn’t look like anything!” 

“Well, it didn’t work. You were scowling like a spoiled little girl who’d just heard the word _no_ for the first time! We did NOT raise you that way! I don’t even _want_ to consider what all the guests are thinking about how effectively we discipline you.”

“Are you SERIOUS?! For your information, I was trying to MAKE MYSELF CRY just so you would think I was actually doing the right thing for once! I was trying to make myself sad so you wouldn’t yell at me! Do you _want_ me to be sad?! Do I only deserve to be left alone if I’m silent and miserable?! Oh, but I have to look happy at the same time, right?! You make no sense! Nothing I do is ever good enough for you! Why do I even bother trying anymore?!”

“Keep talking back and we won’t sign your Hogsmeade permission form this summer! When are you going to start growing up and showing some manners? Are you going to throw tantrums like a six-year-old until you’re twenty-five and then wonder why you have no friends?” 

“WHAT?!”

“You think you’re going to be living in your childhood bedroom until we’re dead because you can’t get a job with your babyish attitude? Well, I’ve got news for you, honey, we won’t—”

“Is my mother’s death an _annoyance_ to you?!” my father demanded, having suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.

“What?! No! I just don’t understand why, no matter what I do, it’s always the wrong thing! You yell at me when I talk and you yell at me when I’m silent! I can’t even sit still with NO EXPRESSION ON MY FACE without you saying I’m being bad! I have every reason to be angry about that; I don’t care _who_ died!! I don’t deserve this!”

“GO TO YOUR ROOM AND STAY THERE FOR THE REST OF THE DAY! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!” my father boomed.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! WHAT DID I EVEN _DO?!”_

“You _know_ what you did!” my mother scolded. “You embarrassed the whole family at Grandma Pearl’s funeral and now you’re throwing a fit, yet again making it all about you! Listen to your father. Stay in your room until tomorrow!”

“Ohh, so you’re going to, what, feed me through an imaginary hole in the door?!”

“NO LUNCH! NO DINNER!” my father bellowed. “Get out of the kitchen! Go! NOW!”

I choked back a sob and trudged up to my bedroom on wobbly legs. (Morgan and I now had separate bedrooms—a small comfort.) Once inside, I slammed the door as loudly as I could before throwing myself onto my bed. I sobbed violently into my pillow until I had no voice left, slamming my fists onto the mattress over and over. 

I could do nothing right. Not only was I a brute for _not_ crying over the death of someone I’d barely known; but I was also, somehow, supposed to strike a balance between appearing happy _and_ sad just so I wouldn’t look angry. Bratty. _Ugly._

Grieving or not, the way my parents treated me was ugly. Disciplining a child was supposed to teach them values; not shame them. And shame was always present in this house. Shame was the weapon my parents wielded to cultivate their illusion of control over me. Instead of expressing confidence in my ability to mature, it seemed like my parents got some kind of sick thrill from punishing me just so they could feel like good parents. They would rather abuse me than admit that they had no bloody clue how to raise a child.

They’d told me stories—I knew they both had been verbally and physically abused as kids, and no one had talked about therapy back then, but it wasn’t such a taboo subject anymore. Why didn’t they get help? If I was expected to behave admirably while being abused everywhere I went, why couldn’t they? Why were the standards higher for me? 

_They certainly weren’t the only people who could get a sick thrill from hurting someone to feel superior. I’d show them._

After a long night of tossing and turning and plotting how to best weasel out of this chaos with the upper hand, I awoke with a grim determination. I didn’t give a shit who was dead or how upset my parents were; they were going to pay for what they had done to me.

I trudged down to breakfast with my eyes downcast, and I positioned my facial muscles to reflect hopelessness and betrayal. I resolved to remain silent until they spoke, after which I would play off of their reactions—after mulling over dozens of scenarios the previous night, I was ready for anything. If they wanted me hyper-aware of how my every move could impact others, I would rise to the occasion with a fucking battering ram. 

“How did you sleep?” my mother finally asked after ten minutes of terse silence. Morgan and my father wouldn’t even look at me. 

“Not very well,” I sighed, staring forlornly at my lap. “I couldn’t stop crying. And I was really hungry.” _No, I wasn’t. But I want you to feel horrible for punishing me. You deserve it._  

“Well, you can eat a big breakfast now. What would you like?” 

“Um...I dunno, I—” Mustering up all the anger I felt the day before, I forced myself to start rage-crying again—not too much, but just enough that tears would flow down my cheeks. I pretended to hide it, as if I were ashamed of being sad when I wasn’t the one grieving. I couldn’t appear a spoiled brat trying to make the tragedy _all about me,_ now could I!

Hastily wiping my tears, I shifted in my seat and slowly raised my eyes to meet my mother’s. 

“Why did you do that?” I asked pathetically. It was hard not to cringe at how weak my voice sounded, but I needed to appear fragile; it was safer to be seen as a doormat than a monster. I could sacrifice my pride sporadically if it meant getting my way in the long-term.

“Alex, we—” 

“Mum, I didn’t even—I didn’t mean to upset anyone yesterday. I was really—I’ve never been to a funeral before, and I  was so confused by it all. I didn’t know how to act. I didn’t know what to feel. I wasn’t trying to upset you and Dad; I promise! I just felt so attacked when we got home and you started—”

 _More tears. Louder crying noises. Make it realistic. Tug at her fucking heartstrings until they break. She’s earned it._  

“I wasn’t _trying_ to make it _all about me,”_ I sobbed, waving my arms for emphasis while speaking the last three words. “You really s-scared me yesterday. It all happened so f-fast! I didn’t want anyone p-paying attention to my f-face or anything else I was doing. I’m so s-sorry my face looked like I was angry, but I wasn’t! I d-didn’t know what to d-do, and I was so uncomfortable! And then, after all of that, you—”

_Slow down. Make it look like it’s a struggle to get the words out. Don’t act as confrontational as you feel. You’re helpless, not enraged._

“You—you threaten to take away what could be the only good thing that happens to me this year? You talk about how important it is for me to learn social skills and make friends, so why would you take away an opportunity for me to do those things? Don’t you realize that if you keep me out of H-Hogsmeade, the other kids will probably make fun of me even more? Do you _want_ me to be bullied more? Do you _want_ me to stick out at school for something that happened _at home?_ Does that r-really make sense to you?”

“Alex—” 

“I’m _miserable,_ Mum! I’m _miserable!_ I have _no friends!_ I try so, so hard to be nice and talk to my H-Housemates and do what they’re d-doing, but they don’t like me! I can’t help being American! I can’t help being different! I want to be myself but I can’t _relax!_ Everyone is always judging me! I don’t go around trying to hurt people; they just come at me and then I get mad! 

“I’m trying so hard to be a good person and I feel like no matter what I do, it’s always wrong and I’m going to be punished for something when I don’t even know what I did! I feel like...I promise I’m not trying to be dramatic, I just...sometimes I feel like I’m being punished for b-breathing! Like I d-don’t deserve to be alive because no one wants me! I don’t even feel like _you_ love me! it seems like you _enjoy_ scolding me and making me feel like a failure. Do you really want me to be happy or do you just want me to be a punching bag? I don’t feel loved! I feel like if I had died instead of Grandma Pearl, the family would be better off. I think you would be relieved to be rid of me! Maybe I should just take my wand and....”

I wasn’t even looking at my mother anymore by the time I’d finished, and I only jerked my head back up when I heard her wheeze. Tears were streaming down her face. My father was rubbing the bridge of his nose and Morgan was shifting in her seat.

Now, part of what I’d just said was true; but I wasn’t a hopelessly depressed victim who wanted to curl up in a ball and cry until someone showed me sympathy. I was a furious, battered child who was slowly gaining strength and clarity. I wanted revenge for all the abuse I had suffered. I no longer wanted a level playing field where everyone was equal; I wanted authority. I wanted to invert the current power structure and transform from prey to predator. And I didn’t want anyone to know—especially not now, at this critical moment.

It seemed that my father and sister had stopped breathing. They stared at nothing, unable to move. My mother and I stared at each other, both teary-eyed for different reasons, until she found her voice again.

“Oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she rasped. “I didn’t realize how sad you were. I’ll—we’ll sign your form. I don’t want to make you stand out even more amongst your peers. I guess I got a bit carried away yesterday. We’re all very emotional right now and sometimes...well, people can make mistakes when they’re emotional. Even adults. I’m so sorry.” 

_Yes! YES! Fuck, don’t smile. Don’t you dare smile. That will ruin everything._

I couldn’t completely stop the corners of my mouth from twitching upward, but I pursed my lips and was able to hold my face in that position. My mother thought that my trembling mouth was from an attempt to hold back tears, not triumphant laughter. I bit my lip hard enough to hurt, in order to banish that pesky grin. The ensuing twitch of discomfort caused my mother to reach out and stroke my cheek. I allowed my face to sag against her hand, and cupped it gently as I “tried my hardest” to stop crying.

“I’m sorry, Alex,” she repeated. “We’ll sign your form. I promise.”

“Thank you,” I replied pathetically.

“What would you like for breakfast?” she asked after stroking my cheek for a moment.

“I’m not hungry,” I whispered, and slinked back up to my bedroom before she could say another word.

My performance had worked beautifully.

*   *   *

I was immensely proud of myself for how successfully I had guilt-tripped my mother. I’d thought about doing so many times before, but lacked the skills to execute the task until now. I was maturing, I was paying more attention to social behavior, and I was learning how different stimuli resulted in various responses. Navigating the complex map of “normal” emotions would take time, but I knew I could master it if I tried hard enough. 

My family and I continued tiptoeing around each other as always, though we finally had a break from dramatic confrontations after Grandma Pearl’s funeral. I was shocked to discover how much sway I held over my family dynamic, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I felt smug because it was a measure of control I could wield over them; yet I also felt resentful and overwhelmed—my parents essentially depended on me for maintaining the health of the family unit. I didn’t realize how deep this current ran until I overheard my parents talking late one night, after Morgan and I had gone to bed. Unable to sleep, I crept out of my bedroom to go wander around when I heard my parents’ voices.

“What if she walks in?” my mother asked. 

“So, let’s lock the door,” my father responded, sounding irritated. “And we can cast a Silencing spell.”

“But what if she needs something?” 

“Renee, this is getting ridiculous. I can’t even remember the last time we made love because all you do is obsess over Alex’s needs. You can’t just lock the door and let us have some time alone without the girls? You don’t act like this with Morgan!”

“That’s not fair! You know as well as I do that Alex has special needs! She’s...damaged! She’s confused! She’s scared! She’s probably still suffering from side effects of being born early! She never got to develop properly in the womb and that’s why she was delayed! You _know_ this, Shawn! I know she’s determined to be independent, but I’m not sure how capable she really is—some things just don’t occur to her, and I worry! I don’t know when she’ll be able to navigate the real world without our assistance! I need to protect her and be there for her until she shows signs of maturation! I _love_ her! That’s what parents are _supposed_ to do! How do you not understand that?”

 _Some things don’t occur to me. I’m incapable. I can’t do anything right without an adult’s help. Is this_ really  _what she thinks of me?_

I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. I dropped to my knees on the carpet and began shaking with rage. I had to rock back and forth, clutching my pajamas to remain silent while I listened to my parents argue. I couldn’t make myself get up and go back to bed—I needed to hear this. I needed to know exactly how they viewed me, which they clearly didn’t have the courage to say to my face. Or maybe they thought I was simply too weak to handle the truth. Probably both.

“I feel neglected,” my father continued. “I have felt neglected since Alex was born. We can’t do anything together, just the two of us, without you talking about Alex and all the things that could go wrong for her. Even after my mother died, you wouldn’t stop complaining about Alex’s attitude at the funeral.

“I agree that she has issues. She’s been at a disadvantage since the day she was born, but you don’t give her much of a chance to breathe when she’s home. You pour so much energy into her that you have nothing left for me! Or Morgan!”

“Shawn, that’s not—” 

“I’m going to be perfectly clear with you: if this doesn’t stop, our marriage may fail. It’s been over twelve years and yes, I’m sorry Alex has problems, but god damn it, Renee! _My mother just died._ I don’t feel like I have your full support because you’re so preoccupied with Alex! I may not be easy to be around right now, but I need—I still have _needs,_ all right?”

“Of course you still have needs! I’m not trying to tell you that you don’t matter; that’s absurd!” 

“I don’t often feel like I matter. I can’t live like this anymore, in the shadow of Alex’s problems, and your obsession with fixing her! You have completely lost your identity and have allowed Alex to consume you!”

 _They’re blaming me. My dad is blaming me for his problems with my mom. Oh my god._  

My mother began to cry. “I don’t know what to do,” she sobbed quietly. “I love being a mother, and I want both our girls to turn out well! All I’ve ever wanted is for them to be happy and healthy and successful. I’m not worried about Morgan, but Alex is just so—”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about. How do you not see how problematic your attitude is? You’re _obsessed_ with her! All you want out of your entire life is another person’s happiness?! What about your own? What about _mine?_ You don’t choose between your husband and one of your children! You need to be able to stand on your own as a woman, and have enough energy for all of us! Your life should not be consumed by one child!” 

“I’m so s-sorry...I never meant to neglect you, I promise! I thought I was doing the right thing in caring for Alex....” 

“Have you ever even attempted to find happiness outside of what Alex does? You can’t make her your own personal project and only view yourself in terms of her success! You have _lost_ yourself! Did you hear me a minute ago? _You have lost your identity. By choice._ You either get help, or I am leaving you. I have patiently held my tongue about this for too long!” 

“How can you say that? She’s so difficult! Do you not _see_ her? The way she acts? Her blatant disregard for—” 

“She may be a bit...delayed in some respects, but look how gifted she is. She’s at the top of her class, despite whatever is malfunctioning inside her brain. Professor Flitwick loves her because she’s a talented singer and has perfect pitch, and she—she can _function,_ Renee. I agree that she’s not nearly as capable as she thinks she is, but she’s not a baby. She can perform _some_ tasks unassisted. Haven’t you thought about just stepping back and just seeing how she acts at home? We’ve never done that before.”

“I don’t know how....” My mother was now sobbing wildly, and emitted one loud wail before stifling the sound once again.

“I do love you, Renee. I don’t _want_ to leave you; I’m just losing patience. I’m not sure what more I can do; this mostly rests on your shoulders. I can certainly support you if you really put forth the effort into finding yourself again, but I can’t be your husband anymore if you continue to define yourself by Alex’s behavior. Do you think you can do that?” 

“If that’s what you need me to do, then—” 

“Merlin’s beard, that’s not what I meant! I don’t want you to improve yourself for _my_ benefit; I want you to be motivated to reclaim your identity so that you can have a better quality of life. You haven’t worked since Alex was born, and you haven’t paid much attention to _me_ since she was born, other than to talk about her. And you barely even talk about Morgan! How do you think _she_ feels? This has got to stop. I mean it.” 

“I...I don’t know how! I _want_ to find myself again; I just don’t know how! Alex is all I can think about because she needs so much extra care, and—”

“She _did_ need so much extra care, when she was little. But maybe she doesn’t now. Let’s just watch and see how she fares—maybe she’ll grow more capable if she’s forced to exercise her own problem-solving skills. Do you think you can handle going out to dinner with me twice a week and _not_ talking about Alex? Even before she goes back to Hogwarts? She’s old enough to be left alone without a sitter—” 

“But is she, though? She’s so sensitive! She doesn’t think things through! She explodes at the slightest—” 

“Renee, can you do this or not?”

Silence.

“And don’t you remember that Healer from St. Mungo’s—Melissa? She told us to take a step back. She’s a mental health professional who spent an hour talking to Alex. I’m starting to wonder if she was right. Maybe if we just give her some leeway—” 

My mother wheezed. 

“Can you at least try this with me?”

“I—yes. I’ll do my best; it’s just going to be difficult because I—”

I couldn’t bear to hear anymore. I stood up and stared at the floor, blocking out the sounds coming from behind my parents’ door and clamping my hand over my mouth as tears began to slide down my cheeks. I didn’t trust myself to even remove my hand from my mouth before walking back to my bedroom, so I planned to stand there and sob silently until I could get a grip on myself. 

And then Morgan came out of her bedroom.

I jerked my head up at the unexpected sight of my little sister staring at my shaking form. Unable to speak, I swept past her and went back into my room without a word. A whimper escaped my throat as I closed the door. Sinking to my knees once more, I allowed my silent crying fit to resume as I heard Morgan go into the bathroom. There was a flush and a tiny knock on my door a few minutes later.

“Alex?” Morgan whispered. “Are you okay?”

I didn’t trust myself to answer. She came in anyway.

“What’s wrong?” she asked after quietly shutting the door. I didn’t speak until she sat down opposite me. 

“They’re blaming me.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“Mum and Dad are having problems and they’re blaming me.”

“Wh- _what?_ Is—are they getting divorced?” Now Morgan had wet eyes—not that I expected otherwise. No child ever wants to consider the end of their parents’ marriage.

“I don’t think so—at least, not right now. Dad is upset with Mum because she pays too much attention to me and she doesn’t pay enough attention to him. It’s so stupid. I keep telling them to stop breathing down my neck, and now it’s my fault that Mum can’t bring herself to stop because she’s worried about me...she thinks I’m incapable...she doesn’t trust me to do anything right...she doesn’t even trust me to _think_ for myself...you know, that stupid thing with Issy wouldn’t have even happened if they’d just let me go out and run by myself once in a while and get in shape, but noooo. _Alex was born early and even though she had physical therapy as a toddler, we still don’t trust her to move her body without supervision because she’s so fragile!_ They’re holding me back, damn it, and I’m still expected to take the blame! And now I’m the one responsible for keeping their marriage together? Seriously? And then they wonder why I’m so mad all the time?!”

“This is scary, Alex. I don’t know if they’re blaming you; maybe Dad’s just mad at Mum...he told us that when someone you love dies, you can feel things too much.”

“It’s not that simple!” 

“I don’t know what—you’re confusing me. I don’t know what you mean.”

_Merlin, the kid’s only nine years old. Of course she doesn’t understand this._

“Morgan, everything that goes wrong in this family is my fault. Mum and Dad depend on me to make them feel good. They blame me for things I can’t control. I feel like I have to be perfect because my mistakes always carry so much more weight, and come with so many more consequences, than anyone else’s! I can’t relax and be in a good mood if I’m supposed to be perfect like...like a quiet, stupid little _Veela_ or something!”

I began to cry again. 

“I can’t just fucking _exist_ without being on high-alert all the time! There’s too much on my shoulders! I have to carry everyone! I’m s-so tired....”

More sobbing.

“What are you talking about? And we’re not supposed to say that word. I don’t want to get in trouble. You’re scaring me. Can you calm down?” 

_Fuck, I have watered this down as much as I can. How much more can I baby this for her?_

“How do you not understand what I'm saying?!” I demanded, unaware of how the volume of my voice was steadily rising. I was incensed that my parents had even had such a discussion, and that I had no one to turn to other than my nine-year-old sister who couldn’t comprehend the mature subject matter. To say I felt hopeless was an understatement.

“Alex, I’m scared. I wanna go back to bed.” She gingerly rose to her feet and wiped her brimming eyes.

“Seriously?!” 

She went rigid and turned around. “What?” 

“You came in and asked me what was wrong, acting like you wanted to listen and be here for me; and then, what? It’s too much for you?! My problems can only be so bad before you can’t deal and you have to walk away? Who else can I talk to, huh? Which friends can I write to or visit when things are bad at home? Which friends, huh? Oh, that’s right, _I have none!_ You want to listen to me but then you get to decide when to check out if you don’t know what to say? Some sister you are.”

“That’s horrible!” she exclaimed, and sat down again. “I don’t want you to feel bad, I’m just anxious! I don’t know what to say! I love you and I want to talk to you, but you freak me out when you get like this! And I don’t like hearing you talk about Mum and Dad like that! It’s making me really sad and I can’t—” 

The bedroom door suddenly swung open. 

“What on Earth is going on here, Alexandra?!” our father demanded. “Why are you awake? Why are you yelling? Why is Morgan in here? And why is Morgan _crying?”_

“Uh...I’m crying too, Dad! Does that not matter to you?”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady! What is going on?” 

Morgan and I looked at each other wide-eyed—she was silently asking me for answers, and I was silently pleading with her not to reveal that which had started this unpleasant discussion. 

“What is going on?!” he repeated.

Silence.

 _Damn it, Morgan, can you just fucking stick up for me ONCE?_  

“Girls, I know something happened in here. You’re both crying, you both look terrified, and I heard Alex yelling. What the hell happened?”

“I had a nightmare and Morgan heard me crying. I was just telling her about it. I’m sorry I got too loud.”

“What a bunch of baloney! What _really_ happened? Morgan? Do you have anything to say?”

“You’re scaring me,” my sister replied quietly, looking up at him pathetically with her tear-stained eyes.

His shoulders slumped at the sight. 

_Oh, Morgan, you little goody-two-shoes, making everyone melt yet again._

“Dad, I’m not trying to be a brat here, but when you burst in like that, you scared both of us. That’s why we looked terrified.” 

“What was this nightmare about?”

I put on my best Professional Sad Face and said, “You were hitting me and screaming at me that I was a bad kid and I was the reason you get angry most of the time. I woke up crying. I thought you were going to kill me.” 

I held his gaze and forced out a few more tears, but didn’t change my facial expression other than to soften it a bit. I didn’t want to appear _too_ dramatic.

He stared for a moment, his countenance a cross between disbelief and humiliation. “Are you—is this how you really feel? Do you think I _want_ to hurt you?” 

“Sometimes. And Morgan—” I glanced at my sister to make sure she was silently playing along. “Morgan got scared when I told her about the dream because she worried that you would come in and start hitting us because we’re out of bed. She started—” _Think, Alex! THINK!_ “—I got angry because she seemed to not care that I was...she was more scared of getting in trouble for being out of bed than scared of you hurting me. That’s why I started yelling.” 

He dropped his gaze to the floor and pressed his lips together. Morgan and I remained deadly quiet, not daring to make a sound.

“I promise I won’t hit you,” he sighed after a long, terse silence. “Good night, girls. Don’t stay up too late.”

And then we were alone. 

“How did you think of the nightmare?” Morgan whispered.

“I’ve had dreams like that before. When he looked at me like that—the way he did when he came in here, it reminded me of all the times he’s gotten mad at me...in real life and in my nightmares. I didn’t need to think too hard.”

“We can’t tell them what you heard.”

“I know. That was the whole point. And...thanks. Thanks for covering for me.”

“I told you I wanted to be here for you. I’m sad that you have no friends.”

“So am I. I get really lonely sometimes, and then I get so much attention from Mum and Dad and it’s like...how do I say this—I want less attention from them and more attention from people my own age. Everything is backwards. It makes me so mad.” 

“I’m really sorry, sis.” She reached out and lightly stroked my arm. I patted her hand and managed a tiny smile. 

“We should probably get to sleep now. I don’t want Dad coming back in here, whether he hits us or not.” 

She nodded and crept back to her bedroom. I remained on the floor for a little while longer, ruminating on the past fifteen minutes. I had turned a potentially dangerous situation into a typical parent-child interaction that had saved my skin, all because of the mood I portrayed—which was vastly different from how I’d actually felt.

 _I really can control the family’s dynamic. God damn. I am the soul inside this fucking machine. And I’m gonna work it._  

After orchestrating a power play like that, I’d normally be grinning like a Cornish pixie; but there was nothing to smile about tonight. A few more tears leaked out of my eyes before I finally fell asleep. 

*   *   * 

My father never hit me again.

I’m not sure exactly what motivated him to change—maybe it was the imaginary nightmare, or the look on my face when he’d burst into my bedroom to yell at me, but something I did got under his skin that night. He must have realized that violence would only escalate an existing problem.

Be that as it may, I would have preferred violence to the conversation I’d overheard. That devastated me more than all the times he and my mother had slapped me, and I couldn’t say anything. Even though they were certainly making an effort to give me space, the tension in the air was painful.

My father withdrew into himself as the weeks passed. My mother, on the other hand, was trying to hide how frazzled she felt as she attempted to adjust her behavior around me. Now having fear of divorce as a motivator to finally back off of me, she didn’t know what to do with herself. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. 

I pretended I couldn’t tell. I would never get my mother off my back if I told her that I knew the source of her stress. And I certainly wasn’t going to approach her with a sugary-sweet, “What’s wrong, Mum? Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?” as if I didn’t already know. I didn’t want to hear her thoughts, and I wanted to avoid yet another altercation whereby _I_ would have to comfort _her_ after she’d hurt _me._ Feigning ignorance was the best option.

As usual, the health of the family unit rested on my shoulders. 

I tried not to think too much about this responsibility, because what would that have accomplished? My parents were finally keeping their distance and allowing me to be the introvert that I was, so did it really matter _why?_  

When I shut out my family and focused on my solo activities, my overall demeanor improved. I felt calmer and more in control of myself—though I knew I could never feel completely in control until I was independent. In the meantime, all I could do outside of school was read, write, and draw to pass the time.

With my newfound breathing room, I was able to observe my relatives from more of an outsider’s perspective. Having never felt like I belonged, it was easier for me to detach myself from my relatives and pretend I was studying a family that wasn't mine. I’d always preferred taking an analytical approach to my social interactions anyway; but had never been able to do so with my family because I’d always been thrust into the middle of their drama and I couldn’t think clearly. I now viewed them as a science experiment, and I mentally took notes on my findings.

Compounding the tension in their marriage, my parents were suffering as a result of Grandma Pearl’s death. I could offer no support for someone who’d taken zero interest in my life—especially knowing that she had never come to visit me in the hospital after I was born. She’d insisted it was too far away. My father had offered to go to her house and take her by Side-Along Apparition, but she’d claimed fatigue from her latest sickness. And she’d supposedly been sick every other week. 

How could I feel the loss of a self-pitying wallower with a victim complex? It was impossible. (And, of course, she’d been right there for Morgan’s perfect birth, as she’d been feeling _so much better_ lately! What a coincidence! Instead of the indifference she’d always shown me, I’d watched her cooing and smiling with my parents as they expressed relief over not having another traumatic birth to deal with. In that brief moment, it had been like I wasn’t even in the room.) 

Though we avoided more fights like the one after the funeral, I could tell that my parents still resented my lack of affection for them. I was breaking the unwritten law that one could only respond to a relative’s death with floods of tears. Morgan cried with our parents, feeling empathy for their grief, but I couldn’t manage the same; I felt nothing but awkwardness. And so I disappointed them all yet again. But this time, I hardly cared.

The amount of crying fits in our house decreased as the summer waned, but the heaviness in the air never abated.

I made sure to be out of the room when yet another family friend came to the house to pay their respects. I didn’t care what they may have said about my antisocial tendencies; they all could have spent hours doing nothing but bitching about what a cold, uncaring beast I was, and I wouldn’t have batted an eye. As long as they allowed me space, I couldn’t complain. Murmured insults behind my back were better than constant screaming matches, replete with my throwing things and hitting people and doing whatever I could to assert my dominance over a situation—because if I didn’t, I’d have been brutally trampled on like a dirty rug. And one thing was certain: I was no one’s fucking doormat. Not anymore.

I was grateful that I’d finally begun to learn how to diffuse tension and get my way without drama—though it was unbelievably exhausting. There  _was_ something satisfying about hurling objects down the stairs, screaming my head off until my throat hurt, and scaring people enough to make them run away. Sometimes I missed being able to do that, but I was much too old for such behavior. I could only pass that off as a consequence of being born early for so long.

I still remembered the last time I’d ever done it.

_I was eight years old. A new family had just moved into the house across the street, and their daughter Brittany was about to turn nine. All the neighborhood children had been invited to the party, to help Brittany make friends. Given how much rejection I’d faced thus far, I was super excited—this was the first birthday party to which I’d ever been invited, and not as a last resort. I was hoping to make some friends, too._

_Unfortunately, a common argument resurfaced and spiraled out of control that morning. In a condescending tone, my parents ran through a list of good manners that they assumed I would forget at the party—while Morgan waited patiently by the front door—and I snapped._

_“Stop it! Gimme a chance!!” I protested. “I don’t need to be reminded! Just leave me alone and let me do this! I can do it myself!!”_

_Sure, I’d given them an attitude, but I hadn’t thought my disrespect a big deal. My parents obviously disagreed. Maybe it was the harsh, barking tone in my voice. Maybe it was the look of animalistic fury on my face. Maybe it was my hands balled into fists, ready to strike. Whatever it was, that one small outburst got me grounded._

_As an antisocial child, I’d never been grounded before, and had felt a sense of superiority that I’d never been dealt this ONE common punishment like all the other kids. And, of course, given my luck, I had to endure it on the one day that social activity would have meant the world to me. Anticipation of Brittany’s party had been one of the first times I’d felt excited that whole year; and I’d put so much stock into that event that I fell apart when my parents decided I wasn’t going. My father had to physically restrain me from running out the door as my mother calmly escorted Morgan across the street with a beautifully-wrapped gift under her arm. Perfect, quiet, adorable Morgan, who would undoubtedly make loads of friends at the party without me._

_My father allowed me to cry out my rage upstairs, assuming I’d be fine once I’d gotten it out of my system. And I_ was  _fine—until Morgan came home. The little brat couldn’t contain herself and had begun gushing about the party as soon as my mother had gone across the street to retrieve her. When the two of them burst through the front door, a bundle of smiles and hugs, I broke down._

_I don’t even remember all the details—only flashes of pounding my fists on the floor, throwing Morgan’s possessions down the stairs and breaking everything I possibly could, while hot tears of betrayal flooded down my face. I was vaguely aware of Morgan running into the guest bedroom and locking herself in because she thought I was going to hurt her. My mother banged on the door and told my sister to unlock it, crying herself by this time, and froze in place when Morgan cried out, “Alex is gonna kill me! I wanna live! Don’t let her near me! I didn’t do anything!”_

_“YOU WOULDN’T BE IN THERE IF I COULD’VE COME TO THE PARTY WITH YOU!!” I shouted through the door. “THIS IS YOUR FAULT, YOU STUPID LITTLE MISS PERFECT FAIRY PRINCESS!! YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED HOME WITH ME! YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN PUNISHED; NOT ME! YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE TREATED LIKE GOLD WHEN I GET TREATED LIKE A MISTAKE! IT’S ABOUT TIME SOMETHING BAD HAPPENED TO YOU!!”_

_I was trying to scare her even more for having experienced a joy that should’ve been mine as well. I wanted her to suffer. I wanted all of them to suffer. If I couldn’t enjoy life, then neither could they._

_Unfortunately, I had pushed the envelope too far that time. Breaking inanimate objects had been one thing, but telling my baby sister she deserved to fear for her life was another._

_My father grabbed me and threw me over his shoulder before storming down the hall. Once in my parents’ bedroom, he pulled me onto his lap and crossed my arms over each other in the position of a straitjacket._

_My blood ran cold. I began perspiring. My heart thumped so quickly I became dizzy. My windpipe was open, but I could barely breathe. I shrieked and cried and struggled as hard as I could, tears and spit and snot dripping down my face as abject terror suffocated me. My father warned me that if I continued kicking him, he would restrain my legs as well, but I couldn’t do anything EXCEPT kick. I was desperate and trying not to panic. Ironically, I thought_ he  _was trying to kill_ me _—or at least harm me irreversibly._

_“MUM! MUMMY! HEELLLPPP!” I shouted, struggling harder than ever as my father’s grip tightened. She didn’t respond._

_Predictably, my father reached down and grabbed my ankles. He only let go when I whimpered, “I promise I won’t move; just let me go! I’m so scared!”_

_He finally released me and let me stand on my own a few feet away, glaring at my shaking form for the next several minutes. I was terrified enough to consider jumping out the window, even though the fall would gravely injure me, just to get away from my father. I wanted to rip my skin off and burst forth as a powerful demon, and burn my house to the ground with everyone in it. Since I could do neither of those things, my only hope was to lock myself in the basement to cool off...but my father would not let me out of his sight until he’d made sure everyone else was okay. As I made to run down the stairs, he grabbed me again and kept me restrained on his lap for another twenty minutes. My screams echoed off the walls._

_I was traumatized for months. Maybe being restrained in such a manner had brought up suppressed memories of being trapped in my own body as a baby—I wasn’t claustrophobic, but I was certainly terrified of not being able to move and defend myself when I felt threatened. And I knew that if I ever raged like that again, I would break down in panic over my father’s response. I didn’t trust that my already-battered mind could handle that again._

_I learned my lesson. No amount of instant gratification was worth such a punishment._

I shivered at the memory, and rubbed my wrists and ankles as bits of that old trauma resurfaced. As much as I hated having to present a certain way to deescalate conflict, I had to remember that it was infinitely better than my former methods. And even though I had gotten into several scrapes after Brittany’s party, I’d never again intensified a fight to the point that my father held me down.

I carried that bitter memory with me for the remainder of the summer.

*   *   * 

Despite my inner turmoil, our annual trip to Diagon Alley went smoothly. I was determined to get it right this time. Now that I knew exactly what and what not to do, I kept my facial muscles as relaxed as possible and only spoke when spoken to. My family kept sneaking glances at each other as if they were waiting for me to explode over a non-issue, but it never happened. And I was enraged after we returned to Grandma Rosie’s house, where that they praised my good behavior—as if my _not_ acting immature was a fucking accomplishment.

They must have thought such praise would make me feel better. Instead, it made me feel worse than being punished. It was a slap in the face.

 _Seriously?_ I thought, forcing myself to smile through clenched teeth as my parents droned on and on. _You really think I enjoy it when you make a big deal out of me doing what all my peers can do easily? Do you want me to stick out even more?_

I began punching my pillow after extricating myself from the family and going upstairs. Morgan remained with everyone else, so I knew I could make a bit of noise uninterrupted.

It wasn’t just that my relatives were treating me like a late bloomer whilst holding me back; they were also oblivious to their lack of concern for my feelings. Most of our conflicts only began when I asserted myself. Had I lacked awareness into my family's nuances, we would have just had another fight over my disdain for their condescending version of praise. They would have called me socially inept for thinking that a compliment was an attack, not realizing that their words hadn't even been complimentary. As always, I had to pretend they hadn't upset me in order to avoid an argument.

They hadn't noticed that my smile had been forced and my politeness an act. They didn't care to get to know me well enough to recognize my genuine behavior. 

 _Why should my safety rest upon my capacity to suppress my needs?_ I screamed inside my head. _Why should I have to put my health and happiness last in order to be seen as respectful? It’s not my fault that the core of who I am makes people uncomfortable! And anyway, why is their comfort more important than mine? If they believe their desire for comfort is more important than my need to be treated like a fucking human being, why can’t I act the same way? I’m only twelve, but adults expect me to treat them better than they ever treat me! How is that fair?!_  

I flashed back to guilt-tripping my mother into signing my Hogsmeade permission form a few months back, and how desperately I’d needed to control the situation to get my way. That feeling was slowly becoming more prevalent in my day-to-day life. The playing field would clearly never be even—which I’d wanted for so long, but I’d matured past such innocent, childish thinking. I had learned that there was no equality or fairness in this world; it was simply a matter of who had the courage to take what they wanted. There were givers and takers. And I was over being a giver, when I’d never even wanted to be one in the first place.

I was done being the victim, and itching to be the perpetrator. No one would step on me anymore.

I didn’t just want to be respected—I wanted to be treated like royalty. I wanted my every whim to become law. And I didn’t care that I was tipping the scales too much the other way; this was simply what I desired. And besides, after all the pain others had put me through, why shouldn’t they have to suffer to give me what I want, as fucking restitution? That was _my_ version of equality. And I didn’t care who I had to hurt to achieve it, as long as I stayed safe and happy. I was done being at the bottom of the cauldron; now, I want to be on a fucking pedestal.

On September 1, I boarded the Hogwarts Express with more confidence than I’d ever before felt among my peers. I all but pushed people out of the way to stake out an empty compartment, not giving a shit about the dirty looks I received as I strutted down the corridor like a queen approaching her throne. I no longer cared about how I made other people feel, outside of those who held influence over my life, like my parents and professors. Why should I be worried if I made a few nameless first-years uncomfortable on the train? They didn’t know who I was. They had no impact on my life. They were nothing to me. I now understood proper social behavior well enough that I did not need constant practice. If someone with no authority wanted my attention, they would have to earn it.

What a marvelous feeling, to simply exist authentically and ignore the outside world. 

I wondered how my new attitude would impact my social standing at Hogwarts, but I didn’t fear for my safety at school anymore. My self-esteem was no longer tied to how many people I could convince to like me—I was only out for myself now. And I fucking loved it.


	11. Tom | 1998

Pink cloud has now turned to gray  
All that I want is to play  
Get on your knees  
Time to pray, boy 

—Alice in Chains ~ “Angry Chair”

I was relieved that the pesky Granger girl would be out of Hogwarts in a few months. According to Draco, Slughorn wouldn’t even acknowledge her anymore; her being at the top of the class meant nothing to him. She continued raising her hand whenever he posed a question to the class, but he only called on her as a last resort—and even then, he acted not the least bit impressed that she’d known the answer. He was completely disenchanted with the girl and I saw virtually no chance of her retrieving the Horcrux story from him. Be that as it may, I would still feel better once she was out of Slughorn’s proximity for good.

Though Draco found Hermione’s bizarre distress amusing, he was too busy studying for his NEWTs to pay as much attention to her as he normally did. The focus of his letters finally returned to his own business instead of making fun of Hermione. And his business was quite boring. I could only read the same complaints so many times without rolling my eyes. 

Margo, on the other hand, was only in her third year and so had no critical exams to worry about. She adored Slughorn as much as ever, and described his dinner parties in great detail. One letter in particular sent me on a lengthy trip down memory lane—someone in the Slug Club had asked the professor about what drew him to teaching potions, and what Hogwarts had been like for him as a young professor.

I could certainly have answered that question.

Slughorn had begun teaching about ten years before I was born, and was Slytherin’s Head of House until he retired in 1980. He had been exceptionally gifted in the subject and Armando Dippet had hired him eagerly when he’d expressed interest in the profession.

I’d always liked Slughorn. Like most of my other teachers, he was supremely easy to manipulate. He was also more fond of me than any of the other professors were—and they all loved me except Dumbledore. Though I was grateful to Dumbledore for introducing me to the world of magic, I hated him for truly _seeing_ me when I wished not to be seen. This wasn’t a phenomenon that developed over time as he observed me at Hogwarts; this began on the day I met him.

- +  -  + -  +  -

_“Tom, you’ve got a visitor,” Mrs. Cole called out anxiously. “This is Mr. Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He’s come to tell you—well, I’ll let him do it.”_

_I was sitting on my bed and brooding while all the other children were playing together. This was nothing new; they never wanted to include me. Ungrateful little brats they were. I deserved so much better._

_“How do you do, Tom?” asked Dumbledore, slowly easing into my room and extending his hand to me._

_I hesitated, but shook his hand before he pulled up a wooden chair to sit opposite me._

_“I am Professor Dumbledore.”_

_“‘Professor’?” I asked suspiciously. “Is that like ‘doctor’? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?” I gestured to my doorway, where Mrs. Cole had just been standing._

_“No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling._

_“I don’t believe you. She wants me looked at, doesn’t she? Tell the truth!” I was infuriated that Dumbledore looked utterly nonplussed at my command. He simply sat there, smiling that pesky smile as I glared at him. “Who are you?” I asked again._

_“I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school—your new school, if you would like to come.”_

_I would not be fooled. I jumped up and backed away, practically spitting. “You can’t fool me! The asylum, that’s where you’re from, isn’t it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course—well, I’m not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them! They’ll tell you!”_

_“I am not from the asylum,” Dumbledore said patiently. “I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you—”_

_“I’d like to see them try,” I sneered._

_“Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, as though I had not continued antagonizing him, “is a school for people with special abilities—”_

_“I’m not mad!”_

_“I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.”_

_I froze. I had no idea what to say, or if Dumbledore were simply trying to fool me. My gaze darted back and forth between each of Dumbledore’s eyes, as though trying to catch one of them lying. They were not._

_“Magic?” I whispered._

_“That’s right.”_

_“It’s...it’s magic, what I can do?”_

_“What is it that you can do?”_

_“All sorts,” I breathed, feeling my face warm as I glowed with pride. “I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”_

_The realization that I was, in fact superior to the other children overwhelmed me. My legs shook. I stumbled forward and sat down on my bed again, staring at my hands, my head bowed as though in prayer._

_“I knew I was different,” I whispered to my quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.”_

_“Well, you were quite right,” replied Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching me intently. “You are a wizard.”_

_I lifted my head, my face a picture of wild happiness. “Are you a wizard, too?”_

_“Yes, I am.”_

_“Prove it,” I ordered._

_Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—”_

_“Of course I am!”_

_“Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir’.”_

_My face hardened as I felt a flash of rage—I didn’t want to have to bow to anyone! I was special! I was superior to all the other children, and probably most adults as well! Why should I have to defer to this man?!_

_But I couldn’t let Dumbledore knew I felt that way; it was not socially acceptable. I forced my voice and facial expression to soften the instant my true feelings had shone through, hoping that Dumbledore hadn’t noticed, but he had. I needed to backtrack._

_“I’m sorry, sir,” I breathed in a sickeningly polite tone. “I meant—please, Professor, could you show me—”_

_After a brief silence, Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit jacket, pointed it at my shabby wardrobe in the corner and gave the wand a casual flick._

_My wardobe burst into flames._

_I screamed. How dare he?! Everything I owned was in there! How could this exasperating man come in here, give me the best news I’d ever received in my lfe—and a way out of this hellhole of a childhood—only to destroy everything I owned in the process? I’d been punished enough by my lot in life! Couldn’t he tell?! Well, if he would punish me, I would be MORE than happy to return the favor. I rounded on Dumbledore, intent on hurting him, and then the flames vanished. Just like that. My wardrobe was unharmed._

_I stared greedily at Dumbledore’s wand. I wanted to be able to inflict the kind of terror that had just been inflicted on me. And with a magic wand, I could learn to do just that! Oh, the POWER I could have!_

_“Where can I get one of them?” I asked hungrily._

_“All in good time,” Dumbledore replied. “I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.”_

_I was terrified. What was special about those flames, other than their ability to leave no trace of their presence? Was it a thievery detector?! Would I be allowed entrance to Hogwarts now, if Dumbledore knew that I had taken from others? Was this visit a complete waste?_

_“Open the door,” said Dumbledore._

_I hesitated, weighing my options. The professor wasn’t backing down. With a heavy sigh, I crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above the rail of all my threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it._

_“Take it out,” the professor ordered in a quiet voice._

_Trying to hide my alarm at being caught—which had never happened before—I took down the quivering box and held it in my hands, trying to stop them from shaking in fright. I couldn’t allow Dumbledore to see my vulnerability. I never wanted to be vulnerable, anyway, and CERTAINLY not in front of someone more powerful than I._

_“Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?”_

_“Yes, I suppose so, sir,” I mumbled robotically after a long moment, during which time I bit back the fury tearing through my body._

_“Open it.”_

_I took off the lid and tipped the contents onto my bed without looking at them. They weren’t extravagant finds—small objects like a yoyo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ. Once free of the box, the objects stopped quivering and lay still upon the thin blankets._

_“You will return them to their owners with your apologies,” said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand back into his jacket. “I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned: thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts.”_

_I suppose the professor wanted me to look abashed, but what did I have to be ashamed of? I had done nothing but tip the scales back to where they should have been. Other children had taken happiness from me; so I took away things that brought them happiness. It was only fair. Why should I not be compensated for the suffering I had endured?_

_I was too angry to fake guilt at this point. I glared at Dumbledore and muttered, “Yes, sir.”_

_“At Hogwarts,” Dumbledore continued, “we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have—inadvertently, I am sure—been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic—yes, there is a Ministry—will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws.”_

_“Yes, sir,” I repeated. I made sure to keep my face neutral as I returned the stolen items to my cardboard box. When finished, I turned back to Dumbledore and said, “I haven’t got any money.” It was the truth. How was I to afford all my school things? I would want the best-quality supplies I could find. Life owed me that._

_“That is easily remedied,” Dumbledore answered, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket. “There is a fund at  Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but—”_

_“Where do you buy spellbooks?” I interrupted, grabbing the heavy moneybag as soon as I realized it was meant for me. I picked up a fat gold Galleon and admired it, for its beauty and its worth._

_“In Diagon Alley. I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything—”_

_“You’re coming with me?” I blurted, looking up from my new stash of shiny coins._

_“Certainly, if you—”_

NO _, I thought._ I am NOT a charity case. I am not an incompetent baby who needs assistance and sympathy _._

 _“I don’t need you. I’m used to doing things for myself. I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley—sir?” I almost forgot the blasted designation again. Damn._

_Dumbledore raised his eyes briefly—presumably making ready to scold me for my lack of manners once more—and then relaxed as I performed my role properly (albeit begrudgingly). He handed me an envelope containing my list of equipment, and explained how to get to The Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage._

_“You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you—non-magical people, that is—will not. Ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name—”_

_Without thinking, I gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly._

_“You dislike the name ‘Tom’?”_

_“There are a lot of Toms,” I muttered._

_I despised my name. It was frightfully common. I didn’t want a name that made me sound ordinary—especially now that I knew I was a wizard. Hearing my name spoken felt like a strike against my worth. I didn’t deserve that. Maybe I could fashion myself a new name when I was older. Surely the world of magic would allow for such a change, no? If my parents had been wizards—_

_And then another question popped into my head. Though I should have kept it to myself, it burst forth in spite of my efforts to contain it._

_“Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle, too, they told me.”_

_“I don’t know,” replied Dumbledore, his voice gentle._

_“My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn’t have died,” I spat, more to myself than to Dumbledore._

_Wizards had to have developed a branch of magic to escape mortality! I would have to learn this as soon as possible. I couldn’t be like my fragile Muggle mother and succumb to such weakness as death! I wanted no association with her cowardice. And I had too much to learn._

_“It must have been him. So—when I’ve got all my stuff—when do I come to this Hogwarts?”_

_“All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope. You will leave from King’s Cross station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there, too.”_

_I nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and extended his hand again. Taking it, I bragged, “I can speak to snakes. I found out when we’ve been to the country on trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?”_

_Half of me wanted him to say yes, and half of me wanted to say no and then regard me with admiration. I wasn’t just a wizard; I needed to be a_ special _wizard. And I needed Dumbledore to know that._

_“It is unusual,” he remarked after a moment’s hesitation, “but not unheard of.”_

_His tone was casual, but his eyes moved curiously over my face. I stood up with him and we stared at each other. Then, the handshake was broken and Dumbledore was at the door._

_“Goodbye, Tom,” he said. “I shall see you at Hogwarts.”_

_And then he was gone._

_I spent the next ten minutes gobbling up all the information Dumbledore had left me—the list of spell books and other school supplies, directions to Hogwarts, the money...the_ money!  _I had never seen anything like it. And I wanted more. One day, I knew I would amass the power to acquire it._

_In the meantime, however, I had to get Dumbledore’s infuriating order out of the way: returning the items I had stolen. I comtemplated obeying him vs. not—how would he really know if I hadn’t done it? I didn’t want to look like a degenerate and sully my reputation, even among Muggles._

_Muggle. A delightfully unflattering word for such unflatteringly ordinary people. They didn’t even deserve to know about the majesty of wizards._

_In the end, I decided that I would fare better by returning the silly little trinkets. Of course I’d wanted to keep them as tokens of my magical prowess and its impact on those who crossed me, but entrance into Hogwarts was more important. Over the next half hour, I returned everything and apologized to each child while looking at the floor, playing the guilty boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It was beyond indecent. Had I more money, I would have paid one of the other orphans to do it for me, claiming responsibility for my crimes and reaping whatever punishment followed._

_What a lovely thought...convincing others to do my bidding and having them return for more. I would have to look into that when I was older. It would make my life much easier._

_Given how well I could already manipulate people as a young boy, I could only imagine the power and respect I would command as a grown man._

_I’d started out being the victim when I was small—the other orphans looked down on me and taunted me for being different (no,_ special,  _you little ingrates)—and I eventually decided to reclaim my power by intimidating my peers into subservience. This took the form of violence and mind games—the former of which frightened Mrs. Cole and resulted in punishment, and the latter of which I grew most fond because it left nary a trace. No one could tattle on me when there was no proof._

 _Though I enjoyed seeing the fright on the brats’ faces when I used physical force, emotional violence always seemed to hurt more. The wounds cut deeper and took longer to heal. And the rush I felt, knowing that I had_ that _much power over others’ emotions, was incomparable. I knew, long before Dumbledore had arrived, that I took intense pleasure from causing intense harm, using nothing but words._

 _I had essentially done that, but on a smaller scale, the summer before—I had lied to Dumbledore and Mrs. Cole when I told them that I had done nothing wrong in that cave with Amy and Dennis. I had done something very, very wrong...but which had felt so very, very good._

_The three of us had happened upon the cave when Mrs. Cole allowed us to go exploring one afternoon. We were on a day trip to the countryside, where we had been many times before, and so Mrs. Cole had trusted us not to go wandering too far off. We knew our limits._

_I saw the cave first, and realized that that was a perfect spot for engaging in a spot of mischief. I wasn’t even sure what I would do yet; I would simply play off of Dennis and Amy’s emotions._

_“Look!” I called out in mock excitement. “That cave looks interesting. Let’s see what’s in there!”_

_“I—I’m not sure,” Amy stammered. It’s probably awful dark and scary and—”_

_“I don’t think it’s scary,” Dennis cut in, trying to impress me. “I agree with Tom. Let’s go have a look.”_

_And off we went._

_Though some light permeated the enclosure, the cave was still quite dark. I went in first and began feeling my way around. Since Amy and Dennis were following my lead, they attempted to hide their fear and copy what I was doing. This went on for a few minutes, until I slinked so far into the cavern that the others couldn’t see me. I flattened myself against the cold stones and fell silent._

_“Tom!” Amy called out. “Where did you go?”_

_“Are you okay, mate?” asked Dennis._

_I didn’t respond. Instead, I pictured a stone springing from the cave wall and bouncing in front of them. It happened in an instant. They yelped._

_Next, I closed my eyes and imagined Amy and Dennis hallucinating—they saw ghosts, rotting dead bodies, and larger-than-life spiders and insects that crawled all over them and tore into their flesh. I fancied my victims incapable of movement, as if in a nightmare, and thus helpless against the terrifying images. I wasn’t sure how, but I knew I could use my mental fortitude to convince my companions that their visions were real._

_Their resulting cries and futile attempts to leave the cave told me that I had succeeded._

_Ten minutes had passed by the time I’d tired of this—and my ears had tired of the screaming—so I relaxed. I was sweating from the exertion, but smiling at my victory. To complete the act, I imagined Amy and Dennis falling into a state of hypnosis in which their traumatized brains blocked out what they’d just experienced—but only on a conscious level. Under the surface, they would never be peaceful again. They would likely have nightmares every night until they died._

_When I was sure that they had repressed these memories, I darted behind Amy and Dennis and called their names. Their heads snapped up, out of their trance, and they regarded me with a dazed expression. Their eyes were glassy and their heads swayed back and forth ever so slightly as they looked at me._

_“This place is boring,” I remarked as if nothing had happened. “Let’s go find Mrs. Cole. I want to go home.”_

_They nodded and followed me out of the cave. We walked for about ten minutes before we located everyone else, and Mrs. Cole screeched at the sight of my companions._

_“What happened? Tom, what have you done?!” she cried._

_“I didn’t do anything! We just went exploring!”_

_“Exploring? Exploring doesn’t make someone look like—like—” She gestured to the dazed children next to me. “Did you only go exploring with Tom?” she asked them gently._

_They nodded. “Just exploring, Mrs. Cole,” Amy replied in a quiet, breathy voice. She seemed not to see the woman speaking to her and instead gazed at a large tree behind her._

_“Dennis?”_

_“Yes, ma’am. We went exploring. The cave was boring, so we left.” His eyes lazily took in his surroundings, not truly processing them._

_I stared down Mrs. Cole, daring her to accuse me of wrongdoing with no proof other than two children with focusing problems._

_“Tom, what kind of exploring causes this?” she demanded. “You look fine and they—oh, just_ look  _at them!”_

_“I dunno, ma’am; maybe something bit them inside the cave. There were some strange sounds in there. We didn’t stay very long.”_

_“I see,” she spat. “Well, considering that you are less afraid of exploring than these two are, you should have looked out for them to make sure they weren’t putting themselves in danger. This better not happen again, Tom.”_

_“It won’t, ma’am. I promise.”_

_*   *   *_

_I brooded in my room that evening, annoyed that Mrs. Cole had put a damper on an enjoyable experience. I had so few of those! If only my parents hadn’t died, then I would never have had to come to this wretched place. I would never have even met Amy or Dennis, or any of the other orphans. I wouldn’t have to resort to putting on a face to blend in. I wouldn’t have to live with a bunch of brats, wearing shabby clothes and eating bland meals and sleeping in a hard bed that would belong to someone else as soon as I was old enough to be thrown out—_

_*   *   *_

_I was sixteen, stalking away from Riddle House after murdering my father and grandparents. Though I was happy to have finally exacted revenge, I was also raging. How could these people have lived so comfortably, in a bloody_ _MANSION, while their own flesh and blood had grown up believing himself an orphan? My father had been ALIVE. The bastard had abandoned me simply because he hadn’t loved his wife—but I hadn’t forced him into a loveless marriage! I hadn’t been responsible for my mother’s being a conniving whore and drugging him because she couldn’t attract male attention without it!_

_Why hadn’t he just divorced my mother? And why hadn’t he been the least bit interested in his only child? I was innocent! I had done nothing to deserve abandonment!_

_This man had deserved to die. I only wished I could resurrect him and murder him a hundred more times—but even that would never be enough to make up for what I had endured._

_When I returned to the orphanage that night, I sat on my bed and drummed my fingers on my leg. I was shaking. I was seething. I craved more and more destruction and I had no idea when it would be enough. I opened my wardrobe, picked up a toy car I had played with when I was younger, and threw it to the floor in a rage._

- +  -  + -  +  -

And that was when I realized it wasn’t a car. And I wasn’t in my room at the orphanage. I was in my underground chamber in the home I had built. It was a water goblet I had just smashed to smithereens.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. My attraction to violence clearly hadn’t waned since my childhood. 

- +  -  + -  +  -

_I wanted to hurt my fellow Hogwarts students, but Dumbledore always managed to show up at the last moment before I acted. His perceptiveness was ridiculous. He may have brought me into the Wizarding world, but he wasn’t exactly helping me adjust. Before long, I began to despise the Transfiguration professor. I realized that if I were to continue tormenting children who crossed me, I would only be able to do that at the orphanage each summer._

_I quickly cemented my reputation for being the brightest student that Hogwarts had ever seen—of course I was bloody brilliant; I’d always known that, but raw intelligence was not enough. Hard work and dedication were also essential. As such, I tackled my magical education with an enthusiasm I had never poured into any other task, which allowed me to shove my monstrous urges to the back of my mind. At least until each summer vacation._

_My penchant for wielding terror over other children didn’t stop when Dumbledore had caught me stealing—in fact, the desire to control others had only intensified. Especially when I began noticing that girls’ bodies were suddenly...growing. Changing. I became curious. Some of the orphans had paired up for short bursts of time, gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes and pawing at each other like the lovesick idiots that they were. I never fell in love, useless emotion that it was, but I certainly lusted._

_I didn’t understand the sensation at first. Why was I suddenly paying more attention to the girls in the orphanage? At Hogwarts? Why did I want to see their developing bodies without the cover of clothing? Why did my groin twitch and tighten at the thought of touching their bare skin? These new feelings baffled my mind, but they interested me nonetheless. Girls were normally covered with robes at Hogwarts, but not so much at the orphanage. The unisex outfits we all wore as small children were later replaced with slacks and shirts for the boys, and blouses and skirts for the girls._

_I liked looking at the girls in their little skirts. I wondered exactly what was underneath. I had no interest in affectionate exchanges the way my peers did, but I was curious about what these pairs did in their private time. Did they only kiss, or engage in other behaviors I’d heard about? The concept of sex had not appealed to me as a young boy, like it had the others, but I began to think of it more often as I matured. I realized that I liked the idea of using sex as yet another weapon I could brandish—physically and psychologically. One of the orphans had recently uttered the word “rape” and I wondered what it meant until I heard her telling her friends what it meant. It meant exactly what I’d been imagining: sex as a weapon. The concept was beyond enticing. I wondered how it would feel to overpower a girl so completely that she had no ability to fight me off, while I did whatever I wanted to her body. Or maybe, some girls actually wanted boys to act like that for fun. I figured I’d enjoy it either way, as long as I achieved the same end result._

_When I was thirteen, I noticed that a brunette named Kimberly Winters was developing faster than the other girls. And I wasn’t exactly unhappy about it. I found myself wondering what she looked like with her shirt off...what her skin felt like...if she ever thought about boys touching her. And that was when I realized that I wouldn’t care if she liked it or not. I wanted to touch her regardless._

_After worming myself into her thoughts with the occasional compliment on her hair or jewelry for a few weeks, I found her alone in the hallway outside the kitchen one evening, and decided to make my move._

_“I like your necklace,” I drawled as I strode over to her. I gave her my most charming smile and she responded in kind._

_“Thanks, Tom,” she replied cheerfully. There was a twinkle in her eyes._

_She liked me. She felt something. I hadn’t been entirely sure before, but I was now. And I was going to show her_ exactly _how much I liked her._

 _“Come with me,” I whispered, while leading her to the darkened corner of the hallway, near the back door._

_“What is it?” she asked softly._

_I reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear._

_“You want to kiss me, don’t you?” she giggled._

_“You seem excited by the prospect. Have you ever kissed a boy before?”_

_“I almost—I mean, I let Bobby Miller peck me on the cheek once, but—”_

_“That’s not the same. What I have in mind is better. Let me show you.”_

_Without waiting for a response, I cupped her face in my hands and covered my mouth with hers. She sighed and allowed me to part her lips with my tongue. Her mouth was pleasantly warm and soft, and the feel of her tongue moving around mine shot a jolt of excitement to my groin. I wanted more._

_I moved to the right a bit, still kissing her, so I could back her up against the wall. As she relaxed further and placed her hands on my shoulders, I slid my left hand from her cheek to her throat, delicately tracing her collarbone while I dragged my lips over to her ear, and down to her neck. She gasped as I began kissing her neck, pressing down harder and harder while I moved my hand down further to cup her breast._

_“Tom, no—I’m not ready for—”_

_I didn’t let her finish. I crushed my mouth over hers once more to silence her objection, and forcefully groped her breast while I shoved my right hand in between her thighs. She squealed and struggled to get away, but I was too strong—and I loved that her efforts to move away from me resulted in her parting her legs. This gave me more room to take what I wanted. I abandoned her breast to shove my hand into her hair and hold her head still so I could kiss her more deeply. Continuing to devour her trembling mouth, I rubbed my erection against her hip and slid my right hand inside her underwear, probing for the spot I wanted most. Just as I had begun pumping my fingers inside her, two hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me away from my conquest._

_“Tom, what the devil are you doing?!” shouted Mrs. Cole._

_“She wanted it! I knew she liked me! We were just—”_

_SLAP._

_“Whether she wanted you running your hands all over her is irrelevant; I do NOT tolerate such behavior! And anyway,” she spat, gesturing to the terrified Kimberly who had sunk to the floor and was shaking with sobs, “if she wanted you to touch her, why is she crying? _”__

__“_ I _—”__

__“_ You forced yourself on her, Tom! You committed sexual assault! Absolutely unacceptable!”_

_Before I could utter another word, Mrs. Cole grabbed my arm and jerked me forward toward my room._

_“You will not join us for dinner AT ALL this week!” she barked. “You will stay in your room all day, and only come out for breakfast and lunch. Any discretion, for any reason, and I will put you out on the street. You will NEVER be allowed back in here! Do you understand me??”_

_“Yes, ma’am,” I grumbled, glaring at her boots to avoid showing her the glare on my face._

_“And you are forbidden from walking within arm’s length of Miss Winters ever again!”_

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

_“Good! Now, go in your room and stay there!”_

_I obeyed, cringing at the gust of air that hit my back as Mrs. Cole slammed my door and stormed away. After standing in place for a moment, I flumped onto my bed and pondered the events of that evening._

_Sexual assault. Sexual assault._

_The words made me sneer impishly._

_I brought my right hand to my nose and inhaled Kimberly’s scent, surprised at how much I enjoyed the mixture of salt and sugar. After examining my glistening fingers for a moment, I slipped them into my mouth._

_Oh, Merlin. No wonder the older boys were obsessed with this._

_I growled at the realization of exactly what Mrs. Cole had ruined for me. Kicking off my shoes, I laid on my bed and took a few deep breaths, allowing my mind to wander. What would have happened if Mrs. Cole hadn’t caught me? What would have happened if I had convinced Kimberly to follow me back to my room?_

_I closed my eyes and played the scene in my head._

_In my fantasy, I had worked some type of magic to lure the unwilling Kimberly away from that dark corner where anyone could spot us. I clasped her hand and all but pulled her back to my room, where I locked the door before slamming her against the wall. As she tried to push my hands off of her, I grabbed a knife from my pants pocket and held it to her throat. She froze._

_“If you fight me one more time, I will kill you and then fuck your corpse,” I warned. “Whether you live or die, I will still get what I want from you. You’re mine tonight.”_

_A tear slid down her pale cheek and she shuddered._

_“You’re even prettier when you’re scared,” I taunted as I placed several hard kisses all around her neck and throat, lingering on her quickening pulse._

_After pocketing the knife so I could use both hands, I took my time unbuttoning her blouse, my gaze fixed on her heaving bosom. I stroked the soft fabric for a moment and then violently ripped it in two. The rent garment fluttered to the ground like a dying bird._

_I imagined her bra to be soft and lacy, just for me. Tracing my fingers over the swell of her breasts, I licked her from her bra line up to her neck, where I bit down. She cried out in pain and tried to incline her neck away from me, but my steely grip prevented her from moving. I continued biting her neck while retrieving my knife once more and slicing it down the fabric in between her breasts, which sprang free from their ruined cups. My heart raced as I pictured them in my mind, sliding my knife down from her throat to her bellybutton._

_Relishing her cries of pain, I leaned down and pressed my tongue to the deep red line, licking my way up her body until my face was pressed against her throat once more. I slid my arms up her trim waist and rubbed my thumbs up and down her nipples to make them harden. While stimulating her breasts, I began kissing her neck and throat almost lovingly. Passionately. I moved my lips across the delicate skin slowly—a stark contrast to my behavior up until this point...partly because I just wanted to, and partly to confuse her._

_Even though Kimberly didn’t want to be here, I was going to make sure that she enjoyed me in some capacity—that would hurt her even worse than a knife to her throat. She would feel as though her body were not hers to control. I wanted her powerless, pliant, and scared out of her mind. Since she’d gotten into my thoughts and begun distracting me, it was only right that I return the favor._

_I still didn’t quite understand these new impulses. What was the appeal of naked female flesh, and why was the urge to touch it so consuming—when I actually allowed it to fill me up, of course. I could suppress these desires if I wanted; but for the time being, the images flashing through my mind were too satisfying to ignore. The thought of devouring Kimberly’s body like a gourmet meal made my groin stiffen and throb uncomfortably. It disturbed me that the thought of a mere set of body parts could upend my concentration, but I couldn’t deny that I was enjoying it. And besides, this was only happening inside my head. No one could punish me for thinking._

_And think I would._

_Kimberly was still standing before me, her breath coming in short bursts as I buried my face in between her soft breasts and kissed the wound I’d inflicted on her perfect skin. Closing my mouth around a pert nipple, I sucked hard while slipping my hands down to unzip her skirt._

_“No...Tom, please don’t....” she begged, trying not to cry as I groped her behind._

_“Sorry, gorgeous, but I simply can’t refuse,” I murmured against her breast before forcing her skirt down so it pooled at her ankles. She moved to pull it back up when I stepped back to admire her body, earning her a heavy slap to her face. She doubled over._

_“What did I tell you?” I shouted. “You don’t get to disobey me without punishment. Do you understand me, you insolent little bitch?”_

_“Y-yes...I—I’m s-sorry!” she sputtered, stepping out of her skirt and tossing it against the door. “Is that better?” she pleaded, frightened eyes widened to an almost comedic size._

_“I suppose so,” I sighed, “but not enough for my liking. Take off your socks and shoes.”_

_She complied, leaving her in nothing but white cotton panties. Easy to rip off if I wanted to—but I actually found myself wanting to tease her a bit more. Stepping in close again, I grabbed her waist and pulled her toward my bed before pushing her down onto the mattress._

_“Stay there,” I ordered as I began removing my clothes. “Stretch out your body. Arms over your head.”_

_She bit her lip and followed my instructions, once more fighting back tears. The sight only spurred me to undress faster._

_Once I was naked, I straddled Kimberly and rubbed myself against her waist. She squirmed and turned her face away from me as tears began streaming down her face._

_“You don’t have to do this,” she croaked. “I promise I wasn’t trying to lead you on or anything...I—I just...I thought you were handsome but I didn’t want to take it this far...we’re—we’re just kids, we’re only thirteen! What’s the rush? What—”_

_I laughed loudly. “Rush? Oh, you silly, naïve little girl. I’ve waited long enough. And besides, I’m going to make sure you enjoy this as much as I do. You’re not leaving this room until you go from begging me to stop, to begging me_ not  _to stop.”_

_“How can you—”_

_“You think I don’t know what to do—that boys don’t talk?”_

_“I just—”_

_“You think I don’t know how to work your body?”_

_She gaped as she met my fiery gaze._

_“That’s right. You can’t think of any smart retort, can you? It’s quite all right, though. You can put your mouth to good use in other ways.”_

_Kimberly started crying harder. She knew exactly what I meant._

_“For god’s sake, stop this childish blathering! You_ are  _going to enjoy this, you know. Stop acting like my bed is a ticket to Hell.”_

_I rolled over and pulled her on top of me. Unable to look me in the eye, she busied herself with wiping her tears and trying to calm her shakes._

_“You know what to do,” I taunted, slipping my hand into her hair and gripping the strands tightly as I pushed her head down. She shuddered as she stared at my throbbing length._

_“It’s—I don’t know if I can. You—it’s...it’s really big—”_

_“Yes, I’m aware! Do your best and I’ll reward you.”_

_Her shoulders slumped and she reluctantly lowered her mouth onto me._

What would it feel like?  _I wondered as I began stroking myself, pretending it was Kimberly’s mouth sliding up and down the shaft—slowly at first, and then gradually picking up speed until white heat burst into my hand. My eyes flew open as a guttural growl escaped my throat._ That  _was unexpected—though not unpleasant. It would definitely have felt better with a girl. One day—_

_I closed my eyes again and saw Kimberly hovering over my groin, shuddering as I made her swallow the hot fluid. Her cheeks burned in shame._

_And I was about to make them burn in pleasure._

_“Lie on your back,” I told her as she climbed off of me. Once she was in position, I straddled her and hooked my index fingers under the straps of her panties. I paused and watched her reaction—I imagined her bracing herself for the merciless ripping of fabric; but instead, I would surprise her with tenderness yet again. I bent down and softly kissed her lower belly as I inhaled her scent._

_“You smell so good,” I breathed. “And I bet you taste even better. Let’s find out.”_

_Her breath hitched as I gently slid the material down her legs and let it fall to the floor beside my bed. She attempted to keep her legs together, knowing full well I wouldn’t allow it, but hoping I’d change my mind anyway._

_I shook my head and smirked at her weakness as I shifted back toward her feet. She had no idea exactly how well I could play her body, but I would show her._

_Leaning down, I caressed her right ankle and kissed it softly. She gasped. I had to pause to restrain myself from letting loose at this juncture; I was out to prove a point, not just to touch flesh. I inhaled slowly a few times to ground myself before slowly kissing my way up her leg, just like the way I’d treated her neck moments earlier—hard, firm, passionate kisses meant to make the girl shudder in anticipation as I worshipped her creamy flesh. I imagined the process working beautifully. She gradually opened her legs more and more without even realizing it, having lost her focus and given in to my ministrations._

_I’d never seen a girl’s intimate parts up close, but one of the older boys had snuck an adult magazine into the orphanage a few weeks before, and we’d all passed it around—so I could imagine what Kimberly looked like with her legs spread wide. The image made my mouth water._

_“You see?” I asked her as she realized what she had done. She had spread her legs for me without me saying a word. Just like I’d known she would. She looked mortified and confused out of her mind, and I was about to make it worse._

_I placed hard kisses to the warm pink flesh in between her legs, eliciting soft moans from her throat at every touch. After stroking her thighs, I pushed them apart as far as possible and began eagerly licking her up and down. I shuddered and growled as I hardened once again, remembering the taste of her on my fingers. Fuck, I needed this. I physically craved the taste of her. My mouth was dry and I needed her to water it._

_Back in my fantasy, I continued licking her frantically, desperate to taste her all over my tongue and convince her that she loved the act as much as I did. I probed her with my fingers, locating that slick warmth and the tiny bundle of nerves above it, which I began to suck as I buried two fingers inside her. She moaned loudly and arched into my face, fuelling me to stimulate her even more intensely. I roughly drove my fingers into her body, gripping the little nub in between my lips until her body quaked and more of that delectable ambrosia covered my fingers. I withdrew from her body and sucked all the fluid off—of course there would be much more than that which I’d taken before being so rudely interrupted. And I’d swallow every drop._

_I imagined her trying to cover her face in shame before I moved up onto her body, grabbed her wrists, and slammed them down onto the bed. She would be blushing furiously, not understanding the sensations I’d just shown her or if she really wanted them. But I wasn’t done yet. This was still all in my head, where I had all the time I’d ever need._

_Keeping her arms pressed against the mattress, I gave her breasts the same treatment I’d given her leg before tasting her—hard, slow kisses over every inch of skin, followed by lavish licks and gentle bites. She gasped as I flicked my tongue over her nipples before sucking hard, loving the feel of them pebbling inside my mouth._

_“If you keep your arms off your body, I will reward you beyond your wildest dreams,” I whispered in her ear before kissing it. “Will you obey me?”_

_“Yes,” she breathed, no longer able to resist. She was perfect now. Exactly how I wanted her._

_Cupping her breasts once more, I kissed and licked my way back down her body and shoved my tongue deep inside her. I opened my mouth wide and pressed my face more firmly against her moistened sex, determined to drink up every last drop. She began moving against me and moaning again as I reached under her thighs to pull them further apart._

_After a few minutes, I slowly withdrew my tongue and dragged it up to the little nub nestled in between her folds and began licking. I’d heard whispers that girls especially enjoyed this activity, and would come undone if a boy performed the task properly—which, of course, I would do to perfection. I imagined Kimberly screaming and thrashing around as I worked her into a frenzy that consumed her whole._

_She gasped and twitched as I continued licking her soaked flesh, more slowly now. When the pleasurable effects had worn off, I watched her sink into the mattress with a heavy sigh. Only after she relaxed completely did I grab her hips and flip her over onto her stomach. She cried out in surprise, and groaned as I pressed my hands against her lower back to keep her still._

_“You’re so beautiful,” I whispered against the dimple between her back and her rear, before placing firm kisses all over her behind. She began to relax, and even arched up a bit as my lips moved across her skin, until I suddenly spread her cheeks and licked her from her sex all the way to her lower back. She squeaked in surprise._

_“I just wanted to see what you would do,” I drawled as I bit her cheeks before flipping her back around. Before she could utter a word, I thrust into her._

_“Ohh!” she cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. The sound was intoxicating. I needed more._

_I grabbed her wrists and forced them down over her head, gripping them more firmly than was necessary as I began slamming into her. As she moaned and begged me to slow down, I bit her neck and only sped up. Whatever she asked for, I would do the opposite. I needed her to suffer. I was done toying with her emotions; it no longer mattered if she enjoyed me or not. I wanted her body beaten and broken by the time I was finally finished with her._

_And in my mind, that’s exactly what happened. When I had eaten my fill of her, she was covered in bruises and blood was trickling down her thighs. She had teeth marks all over her neck. Tears were streaming down her face._

_“That’s what happens when you say no to me,” I admonished as I threw her clothes at her crumpled form. “Get dressed and leave. I’ve had enough.”_

_Kimberly nodded through her tears and obeyed. As I watched her go, I warned her to never speak of our activities or I would kill her and fuck her corpse, as I’d threatened to do earlier. She shivered as she scurried out of my room._

- +  -  + -  +  - 

A loud hiss brought me back to reality again. Nagini was looking at me with her head cocked to the side, waiting for me to clean up the shattered goblet I’d thrown moments ago.

 _“Are you going to get rid of it or not?”_ she hissed.

I sighed. _“Yes, I’ll take care of it,”_ I grumbled. _“Evanesco.”_

 _“Thank you,”_ she replied as she slithered off. 

Though she could be incredibly sassy at times, I did like Nagini. The fact that she carried a piece of my soul was only part of the reason; she also helped me eliminate traitors and others who crossed me. Merlin, I was so proud to be a Parselmouth. I never forgot the day I discovered this gift, as a little boy on another outing with Mrs. Cole and the orphans as we traipsed through the English countryside.

Had I not discovered my ability to converse with snakes, I would never have formed such a unique bond with Nagini. We’ve always understood each other. She really was useful, and surely the only female companion I would ever require. I didn’t bond with other humans. I was not interested in such a venture, especially given that no woman could possibly understand my inner workings the way Nagini did—the snake stayed out of my way when I wished to be alone, and came when I called for her to do my bidding. That was all I needed.

I watched her absentmindedly as she slithered around the chamber, stopping to regard the ever-growing stack of letters from the Malfoy children.

Speaking of the Malfoys, Draco was about to sit his NEWTs and Margo was finishing her third year. Draco wrote recently to tell us that Hermione had continued badgering Slughorn until he finally snapped: after one Potions class, Draco heard the girl speaking to Slughorn in hushed tones until the professor shouted, “You may _never_ speak of this to me again, Miss Granger! This is harassment! And, on second thought, you will never speak to me again, period! You may only come near me for class; and if you have a question—which I’m sure you won’t—ask another student! I will give you a failing grade if you so much as raise your hand. You are dismissed!” Hermione left the Potions classroom in tears.

Upon hearing this news, I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. My secret was safe.

Slughorn resigned immediately after final exams. No one but Hermione, Dumbledore, and I knew exactly why, but no one else at Hogwarts seemed to care. They were accustomed to a revolving door of professors, anyway. (Margo was upset, as she’d loved Slughorn, but there was nothing she could do after overhearing him arguing with the Headmaster—he’d been threatening to leave long before actually making the decision.

Draco graduated as second in his class, right behind Hermione, as he’d been from the beginning. He was angry, but at least relieved that his father had convinced Cornelius Fudge to open up a position for him at the Ministry. 

Hermione also began working at the Ministry, as a secretary to the Head of the Auror Office. I instructed Lucius and Draco to keep an eye on the girl—I might still have to kill her at some point, if she grew too meddlesome. For now, though, I could turn my attention elsewhere. 

*   *   * 

Over the summer, Snape told me that Dumbledore had reached out to him, asking him to resume his old post. He’d balked at first, having been essentially forced to resign only a year ago, but Dumbledore had decided that he’d made the wrong move by bowing to public pressure. He promised to make an impassioned speech to _The Daily Prophet_ about Snape’s innocence and integrity if he promised to return to Hogwarts. He vowed to never again let others’ opinions sway his hiring decisions, regardless of the severity. After pondering this for a few weeks, the potions master agreed to return. He requested the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Dumbledore was adamant about him teaching Potions. And so he did.

As news spread of Snape’s renewed employment at Hogwarts, the hate mail began flooding in. He mentioned the content of the letters after a Death Eater meeting before the start of term, asking if he should be concerned. I told him, in not so many words, to suck it up and deal with it. If he’d been able to perform his role well for fifteen years, he could do so again. He muttered his agreement and departed Malfoy Manor.

Snape’s renewed employment was not the only excitement of the summer: Sinjin and Snappette married in early August. I obviously did not attend the ceremony, but I heard all about it from the Malfoys and the Gilmores after the fact. They had stuck close together, as elite Pureblood families tended to do on such occasions, and became friendly in their own way. I congratulated the young couple during the last Death Eater meeting of the summer, and they beamed with pride. 

*   *   * 

Margo began her fourth year in a much more cheerful mood than normal. She was happy to return to Hogwarts, as always, and also thankful that Draco wouldn’t be there. She would no longer complain about him in her letters—and we would no longer receive Draco’s complaint-filled missives every other day. It was a relief to everyone. 

Since she was done living in Draco’s shadow, Margo’s letters grew more lighthearted. She talked a lot about her friend Sheena, who had bought a cat over the summer and was now feline-obsessed. She’d apparently tried to convince her parents to buy her three more cats, but she’d been forced to stick with just one. This cat, named Bubbles, followed Sheena everywhere and meowed loudly whenever her conversations with friends grew particularly animated. While Sheena was in class, Bubbles either lounged on her bed or stalked the halls of Hogwarts. McGonagall scolded Sheena one afternoon when she’d walked into the kitchens for a snack and found Bubbles antagonizing the house elves. That earned Sheena a detention, ten points from Slytherin, and a threat to train her cat properly or face further consequences. Margo found this highly amusing.

The Malfoy girl also told us that Lulu had retained contact with the Montecores, who were performing admirably well at the Ministry. I didn’t need Margo to tell me that, though; Yaxley vouched for the couple at Death Eater meetings, as the three of them delivered intelligence on the Ministry’s activities.

I now had a steady, reliable group of followers, but that didn’t mean I would cease looking for new ones. I didn’t have my eye on anyone currently—anyone except for Draco Malfoy.

The boy was now eighteen and had a job. He’d grown up in his posh, privileged environment, which had allowed him to remain childlike for much longer than most teenagers. I’d recruited more valuable henchmen and waited for Draco to mature to an acceptable level before testing his ability to serve me, and I realized I had been patient for long enough. The time had come for him to prove himself.

I amused myself with all the different scenarios I envisioned for Draco either failing miserably as a Death Eater, or barely scraping by and doing _just_ enough for me to keep him alive. During one of these musing sessions, I pondered the concept of Draco having to pass a test before receiving the Mark.

And then I began wondering if, going forward, _all_ my new recruits should have to pass a test before joining me. This practice would certainly weed out the weaklings. Yes, that was how I’d approach the task going forward. Anyone I wanted as a Death Eater would have to prove their brutality and ingenuity under pressure, or else they’d die. It was a simple, efficient formula. 

Draco would be the first new Death Eater who would have to pass a test to be initiated. He had bragged about his future performance for years, and now it was time for him to show up. His assignment would either prove his worth to me or mark the end of his life. I looked forward to the result either way—being a Malfoy, everyone in my ranks knew of him and his penchant for boasting. And his parents had been agonizing over the event for years. More than likely, I’d be taking a load off their shoulders as they no longer would lose sleep over potential scenarios with my plans for Draco. Though the tests I’d ascribe to would-be Death Eaters would likely be torturing Muggles or traitors, showing creativity in these endeavors, I decided to give Draco a more unique, meaningful assignment.

His task would be to murder Albus Dumbledore.


	12. Alex | Year 3 (2000-2001)

This bitter pill is pushing me away  
And now I feel like there's nothing left to say  
And I pretend to look the other way  
But in the end, will I be okay?

—12 Stones ~ “Bitter”

 

The trip to Hogwarts was as awkward as always. I embarked on my usual search for an empty compartment and, also as usual, ended up sitting with a few nervous first years who had nowhere else to go. They didn’t even bother trying to talk to me, other than squeaking at me to ask if they could share the compartment. I nodded and returned to my new Charms textbook, making it clear that I was not interested in socializing. I didn’t even care about younger students’ reactions to me anymore; I’d likely never again see whatever nameless faces I sat with on the train, so why bother putting on an act? I buried my face in my textbook while the first-years shifted and whispered uncomfortably until we arrived at school.

I daydreamed my way through the sorting ceremony, drumming my fingers on my lap until the monotony was finally over with and the food appeared on our plates. A few of my Housemates asked me how my summer was, or what new classes I was taking, but it was all so very strained—they seemed to be sussing me out and gauging my mood so they would know how to feel around me; not actually expressing interest in my life. I answered their questions in a monotone, letting them know that I was not enthusiastic about being a test subject under the microscope of their sick curiosity.

*   *   * 

Most of my classes began as expected—each professor introducing their class, passing out the syllabus, and reminding us that hard work would be rewarded. Nothing out of the ordinary.

And then came one of my new electives: Divination.

Professor Trelawney was the most zany human being I’d ever met. She dressed like she belonged to some outlaw klutzy witches’ tribe, and wore gigantic glasses that made her eyes look twice their size. She also spoke as if in a trance, predicting the end of the world. And people thought _I_ was weird.

All the students looked at each other with the same _What The Fuck_ expression as Trelawney spoke, emphasizing horrible events that would transpire if we weren’t careful. As amused as I was, I also found myself a bit disappointed. I’d suspected that I had psychic abilities since I was very small—I’d been able to see things in others that they couldn’t see in themselves, and sometimes predicted the future without realizing it. I’d hoped that Divination class would help me hone those abilities, but Trelawney seemed like nothing but a quack. Why on Earth had Dumbledore hired her? 

As she continued her ominous lecture, my mind wandered to all the times I’d seen the future—there were people I’d randomly thought of, and then I’d seen out of nowhere after a long absence. There were fights I’d known my family would have because I could sense the tension in the air and pick up on its source, no matter how well my parents faked happiness. There were topics of conversation I’d think of out of nowhere, and then I’d walk past people having that exact conversation an hour later.

The most poignant of these memories had occurred when I was seven. My family was about to go on vacation, and we were staying in a hotel that had an indoor swimming pool. I had never seen an indoor pool before and, naturally, an image formed in my head as my mother had explained the concept to me. 

There were no words for my shock upon discovering that the pool, and its surrounding area, looked exactly as it had appeared in my mind. The size, the colors, the shape of the room—everything. I wanted to tell my parents, but I knew they would have dismissed it as insecure fibbing.

Other such incidents happened every so often, more so as I got older, and I never told anyone. I knew no one would believe me—and what was the point of sharing such information anyway? I knew what I was capable of; I didn’t need to impress anyone to know that my talents were real. I didn’t need their approval.

The problem was that when people thought ill of me, whether or not I’d actually done something wrong, bad things happened to me. Scolding, punishments, and public humiliation were always a hair-trigger away, and I never knew exactly how or when I would set such events into motion. I had to be a thousand times more vigilant than everyone else around me. I had to contain myself and diffuse all negative situations I encountered to protect myself—which included shrinking the visibility of my skills to make sure I wasn’t intimidating anyone enough to make them lash out at me.

I grew angry as I suddenly realized that I had resisted exploring my psychic abilities, for fear that doing so would make me arrogant and therefore deserving of punishment. And so I promised myself, right then and there, that I would never sabotage myself that way again. Containing myself may make others comfortable, but it was torture for me. I was growing up and needed to learn to fend for myself. I couldn’t waste time looking over my shoulder to cover my tracks anymore.

Since the beginning of the summer, I’d slowly begun to realize exactly how powerful I was—and that acknowledging my gifts was okay! I wasn’t an immature braggart for acknowledging that I had certain talents, just because other people didn’t.

I would no longer hide my abilities to keep others comfortable. I would no longer be responsible for other people’s feelings. I didn’t even care about other people’s feelings anyway, beyond their impact on me...but maybe other people didn’t hold as much sway over my life as I’d initially thought. I could only test that theory by breaking out of my shell.

“Broaden your minds!” Trelawney breathed loudly, snapping me out of my deep self-reflection. “Use your inner eye to see the future!” I bit back a giggle as she dramatically gestured to the crystal balls in front of us, and began teaching us how to use them. Maybe I wouldn’t be honing my extrasensory abilities in this class as much as I’d hoped, but at least I could have some laughs.

*   *   * 

Speaking of laughs, I had an unexpected chuckle one evening in the middle of September. During dinner, I reached under the table to scratch an itch on my leg, and one of my rings fell off. As I leaned down to pick it up, I spotted a small giftwrapped box on the floor nearby. Without knowing why, I snatched it up and slid it into one of my robe pockets. No one even seemed to notice, as my Housemates had been ignoring me, and I kept my facial expression blank as I returned to my dinner.

 _Whose was that?_ I wondered, careful to finish my meal acting like nothing had happened. _Will they notice it’s gone? I can’t wait to find out what’s inside. Will I be able to look at it out in the open, or should I hide it as a secret trophy so no one finds out I took it?_  

I tucked the little box under my blanket before changing into my pajamas that night, and then placed it in my cauldron when my Housemates weren’t watching. I’d look at it sometime over the weekend.

Thankfully, the weekend was just around the corner. I had taken the box on a Thursday night. My mind wandered during classes all day on Friday, as I speculated on the contents of the gift that wasn’t mine. I practically skipped to my bed after dinner that night, my heart pounding in anticipation, when my Housemates were all spending time together in the common room. 

I felt a smug satisfaction as I carefully retrieved the stolen item from my cauldron. _After everything life has taken from me,_ I thought as I curled into myself to unwrap the box, _why should I not be entitled to take something from someone else?_ Especially something so small as—

A silver necklace with a shimmering snakehead charm.

Oh, Merlin, it was beautiful.

It was perfect. It was mine. It was free. And I didn’t care in the slightest. I knew I should have felt guilty, but I only felt victorious. For the first time, someone else’s loss was my gain, and not the other way around. It was about fucking time.

I put the necklace back in the box and stowed it at the bottom of my trunk, under all my clothes. I would wear it at home only—when I wasn’t sitting on my bedroom floor and gawking at its beauty, that is. 

The following week, a Slytherin named Miranda McKenna received a Howler from her mother, berating her for having lost the ten-Galleon white gold necklace she’d received for her sixteenth birthday. The woman’s voice berated the mortified girl for five solid minutes, reminding her that the family’s wealth did _not_ excuse her irresponsibility. Galleons didn’t grow on trees! Just because an object was replaceable didn’t mean one should be so careless as to lose it immediately! And she would _not_ be receiving a new one, so she shouldn’t even _think_ about asking!

I was careful not to make eye contact with Miranda as I chewed my food, willing myself not to topple over laughing. 

Someone else had gotten a Howler because of me. The fire that ran through my veins nearly made me twitch with giddy excitement.

This was a complete stranger. I had no connection to Miranda, and therefore no reason to be suspected of stealing her necklace. It could have gone anywhere—any other Slytherin could have seized it from under the table. We _were_ Slytherins, anyway; it wasn’t like I was the only one capable of thievery. Or maybe she could have lost it walking to or from class! A dishonest student from any House could have picked it up in the hallway! There was nothing tying me to the crime. And I had a fucking beautiful necklace now. Life was obviously rewarding me after all the injustice I had suffered. 

*   *   * 

Since I was feeling more confident, my ability to mimic normal behavior was steadily improving—the Moaning Myrtle escapade had also helped soften the other Slytherins’ perceptions of me. As the next few months passed, I gradually built up a rapport with Ashlee, Monica, Jon, and Mark. I wasn’t sure if these exchanges would ever materialize into friendships, but it certainly seemed that way when they invited me to join them in Hogsmeade one Saturday afternoon in November. I was excited yet cautious, remembering what had happened the last time I’d thought I would be spending time with a classmate—which had resulted in me sitting in my commonroom alone for two hours. I hated how surprised and happy I was that my Housemates didn’t retract their invitation. 

We wandered around the village for a while, talking about our classes, until trudging through the snow became too tiring. We traipsed into The Three Broomsticks and staked out a booth in the corner.

“At least it’s not too crowded,” I remarked as I cast a drying spell on my feet.

“Yeah, it was horrible last week,” Ashlee replied. “We couldn’t even get a table. They rolled out the hot-drink specials for the first time this season, and the place was packed.”

“Well, let’s try them now. The novelty seems to have worn off.”

My Housemates agreed, and we talked over a pitcher of hot spiced butterbeer for the next hour. Though they included me in most of the conversation, there were moments where I was clearly being left out—the discussion kept veering to social events from which I had been excluded, so I had nothing to add. I wisely kept my mouth shut during these moments, trying to show my Housemates that I understood social protocol well enough to know when to keep quiet. They either knew what I was doing and respected me for it, or didn’t even notice. Probably the latter, knowing how easy it was for my peers to forget when I was in the room. I felt like I was floating on the surface of a lake with an unpredictable current—sometimes I was going with the flow and the conversation went smoothly, and other times I was violently shoved backward and had to regroup all alone, because no one would be there to catch me if I drowned. It was exhausting.

Despite having to perform these social gymnastics, I did have _some_ fun with my Housemates. I could tell that they were still a bit apprehensive about spending time with me—not as much as the past two years, but there were still vestiges of my former awkwardness that I hadn’t yet managed to shrug off. I wasn’t part of the group. My Housemates had included me out of curiosity about what I would do as a more mature person. I think they may have also felt a bit bad for me because of all the harassment I had faced, but I still didn’t feel like I belonged with them. I felt pressured to prove myself worthy of their inclusion. 

I didn’t think they were going behind my back and looking for reasons to reject me all over again; they were simply uneasy around me because they knew what I was capable of. They knew I had no qualms about beating someone within an inch of their life. And even though I had done no such thing in two years, no one would ever forget the scene on my eleventh birthday. That was a stain on my reputation that I could never completely remove—though I hoped I could make it fade enough over time. I couldn’t control people’s Predator Detectors blaring whenever I entered their ten-foot radius, but I could control how _I_ acted. If I behaved admirably well enough, for long enough, the tide would surely change at some point. It had to. How long could school children hold grudges, anyway?

...Normal school children, that is. I was obviously not included in this faction. And I could probably hold a grudge for a lifetime.

I was still torn between wanting friends and wanting to tell everyone to fuck off. I continued accompanying my Housemates to Hogsmeade when they invited me; but otherwise, I stayed behind on weekends and lost myself in my schoolwork. I wondered what would happen if I actually rejected a Hogsmeade invitation—would my peers even be disappointed? Would they miss me? I doubted it. They all chose to go to Hogsmeade together without even thinking about it, and only asked me if I wanted to join right before they left. I was an afterthought. Still, it was better than being excluded altogether. My Housemates were at least _trying._ They were trying to navigate social situations with someone vastly different from them, which I knew from experience, was astronomically difficult. I resolved to continue being patient and play each social interaction by ear. The only way I could learn to blend in better was to practice.

*   *   * 

Divination class was the best way for me to practice mirroring others, as everyone made fun of Trelawney behind her back. We mimicked her voice and exaggerated body language, and sometimes wrote complete nonsense on her assignments just to see what would happen. She usually failed to notice—and when she did, she assumed that our future-predicting abilities had merely been clouded over by the stress of dire events we knew were about to transpire. She only took off a few points on these occasions. 

We finished the crystal ball rubbish in the middle of December, and moved on to palmistry. Trelawney split us up into groups of four to read each other’s palms and compare the accuracy of our separate readings, since we were just beginning to learn the art. I worked with Ashlee, Felix, and Sarah, the only other third-year Slytherins who were taking Divination. After half an hour of mundane note-taking and discussion on our findings, Trelawney sauntered over to each group of students to see what we’d learned. My group was last. I allowed my mind to drift as the nutty professor looked at our palms and consulted our findings for accuracy. It was humorous and mildly interesting.

Until she looked at my palm. 

She cocked her head to the side and hummed nervously as she ran her fingers over the lines, rotating my palm a bit to make sure she wasn’t missing anything under her classroom’s dim lighting. After checking her observations against my classmates’ notes, she suddenly grabbed my hand forcefully and pulled it close to her face. She gasped so loudly that everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at me. 

“What?” I asked tentatively. “What is it, Professor?”

“My dear girl...your—your Line of Fate troubles me greatly,” Trelawney stammered, running her index finger down the offending crease in my palm. “I have never—I have never seen...anything quite like this before.” 

My forehead wrinkled. “What’s wrong with it?” 

_Could I maybe NOT stand out for five fucking minutes?!_

“You—you are meant for great things, Miss Halaway. You are—oh yes, you are an immensely gifted and capable witch. You do possess the Inner Eye, and can do wonderful things with this gift—but...but I also see something very troubling; very dark! You see these marks here? This line tells me that you will one day achieve extreme power, but only through causing others extreme pain. You have the potential to right an immense injustice, though I believe that you will instead be consumed by the darkness you encounter.”

“W-what do you mean? What darkness?” 

“Your soul is vibrant, yet contaminated. I noticed your deep red aura when you first set foot in my class, hoping that your intentions in studying this discipline would help cleanse your spirit, but I see now that I was wrong! You are inexplicably drawn to chaos and destruction, and one day you will reap what you sow. Worshipping the darkness comes with consequences you cannot fathom at such a young age. I see blood...torment...betrayal...ruined bonds...ahh, and alliance with a cause that is dear to your heart, but at a steep price. You will find yourself at a crossroads before you are old enough to make the wiser, more humble choice, I’m afraid.

“Please...please be careful, my dear. You are young enough still that you can alter your life path for the better—if you want to. I fear that you do not, but I fervently hope that you will change your mind. You are still so young...you have your whole life ahead of you! Please consider your choices carefully. Everything you do from now on will point you down the path you are meant to travel.”

 _What the ever-loving fuck is she talking about? I don’t worship the darkness—or anything, for that matter—and all I want to do is fucking exist without being picked apart everywhere I go! What even IS this shit?!_  

Trelawney dropped my hand and regarded me with fear and intense sadness. My heart pounded, the blood drained from my face, and beads of moisture began cropping up around my hairline. I adjusted my hair nervously as Trelawney pressed her lips together and wiped a tear from her eye. Shaking her head slowly, the professor turned around and walked back to the front of the classroom. I glanced around and saw that everyone was staring at me. Again.

I couldn’t catch a fucking break, could I? Just when I thought I was starting to earn a place in my classmates’ social circle, fucking Trelawney had to make some creepy prediction—which may or may not even have been accurate—and we were back to everyone looking at me like I was about to murder them. What a joke. 

“That is the end of our class today, my dears,” she sighed, deliberately avoiding eye contact with me. I barely registered her words as she gave us our homework assignment, and left the room as quickly as I could.

*   *   * 

My Housemates gave me their backs after Trelawney went off on me. Even though most of the Slytherins did not take Divination, they still knew what had happened within hours. News traveled fast at Hogwarts. By the time we all gathered for dinner that evening, it felt like my first year all over again—everyone was sneaking apprehensive glances at me and whispering under their breath, as if I were too dense to realize that they were talking about me.

What had I ever done to deserve this? It wasn’t my fault Trelawney was a doomsday-obsessed lunatic! Why was I always the target?

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Trelawney also began avoiding me whenever possible. She appeared terrified and devastated at the mere sight of me. I no longer felt safe in her classroom. I realized that, Inner Eye or not, I would need to drop the class at the end of the year. I wanted to drop it now; but that would only make me look guilty of something. Completing her class and continuing to mimic others’ behavior was the only way I could prevent this situation from escalating. If the other kids saw that my actions were at odds with Trelawney’s ominous words, whatever they had meant, then maybe they’d slowly begin to forget the incident and we could go back to friendlier interactions. Maybe it hadn’t been a prophecy and just some batty old woman’s ramblings. I couldn’t afford any more bad press—especially when it came with words like _blood_ and  _torment._ Maybe Trelawney was off her rocker and maybe she wasn’t; but people were certainly taking her more seriously after she read my palm in front of the class.

I thankfully had winter break to ponder my next move, as I would once more be alone in my dorm for a few weeks. During this time, I thought about how Trelawney had impacted my tumultuous social situation. I begrudgingly admitted that her prediction, regardless of its accuracy, was the elephant in the room that would never go away unless I acknowledged it. As always, I was the one who had to diffuse the tension. I spent my holiday turning over various situations in my head and planning how I would break the ice when my Housemates returned. 

Everyone continued to ignore me when term resumed. After a few weeks of my acting like nothing had ever happened, I brought my Divination homework to the Great Hall, feigning annoyance and confusion as I worked on the assignment over dinner. I knew everyone near me was watching, but I pretended not to notice for a while. When I _casually_ glanced up and caught Sarah looking at me from the corner of her eye, I gave her a half-smile and said, “This class is pretty stupid, isn’t it.” 

She said nothing and looked away.

I sighed and mustered up my best expression of fondness. “Look, Sarah, I know Trelawney made some creepy prediction about me, but when did we ever take her seriously before that?” I asked. “She scared me as much as she scared everyone else. Do you...actually believe her?” My face was now a picture of soft sadness—wide eyes, relaxed yet down-turned mouth opened slightly, relaxed jaw, and eyebrows raised just a smidge, but not enough to crease my forehead.

Sarah crumbled.

“I don’t know, Alex. Even though she’s pretty barmy, that prediction seemed different, you know? Not as...whimsical.” 

 _“Whimsical?”_ I laughed. “When is Trelawney ever _whimsical?_ All she ever talks about is doom and destruction. Does it really shock you that she would do something that dramatic? And honestly, she was probably just singling me out to make herself feel better, because she knows that everyone else does.” 

 _Oh, oh. See what I just did? Do you guys feel good about isolating me now?_  

Everyone around us had stopped talking by this time, and began shifting uncomfortably as they ate.

“Did _you_ believe her?” Ashlee asked me. 

“Of course not! Why would I want to believe something so horrible?”

“She just sounded...so much more serious than she normally does. It was freaky.”

“She’s made all sorts of stupid doomy-gloomy predictions all year, but none of them ever scared her like your palm did,” Felix added.

“So you’re all gonna punish me for it, like I brought that nonsense on myself? Seriously, guys, she scared the crap out of me. I had nightmares about it! You think I like being singled out all the time? You think I asked for this?” I stared down each person who was paying attention, daring them to look me in the eye and tell me I deserved to be rejected.

My Housemates timidly looked around at each other, not knowing what to say. 

“I just want to get through Hogwarts and have friends like all of you do,” I continued. “I’m a kid, just like you. You’re only scared because you see me as different. I don’t know why people just... _react_ to me, but they do. I’m not _that_ different.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I was after results more than humility. I didn’t have much experience with the latter, as it was.

“Alex, I don’t think anyone _hates_ you,” Sarah interjected. “You just...”

“I just what, _exist?_ Tell me something, do you all go around looking over your shoulders to make sure you’re not scaring the shit out of everyone, when you’re only trying to get through your day? Just ‘cause I don’t talk like you or act like you doesn’t mean I’m a freak. I’m not out to hurt anyone; people just harass me and it makes me mad. You know you’d get mad in my place, too. Don’t punish me for what Trelawney did. She’s a total nutjob.”

A heavy silence descened upon my area of the Slytherin table, which lasted through the entire meal. No one knew what to say. I suspected that my Housemates were trying to make sense of my words—a valid reason not to talk to me—but I still wished I knew what they were thinking.

I’d done all I could to convince them to treat me better. I’d left the door open for them. If they wanted to walk through, they would do so on their own. 

The Hogsmeade invitations stopped coming. I didn’t mind; I had plenty to do by myself, and I was in no rush to win anyone over. Having already been to the village several times, the novelty had worn off and I didn’t feel like I was missing out on anything.

I would find out who my true friends were over time—if I had any at all, that is. And getting that little speech off my chest had been an immense relief all by itself.

Though part of me was still depressed that I had no friends, I found myself feeling surprisingly content on some days. I woke up on my thirteenth birthday feeling confident, determined, and in no need of company. I wouldn’t even have cared if my family had forgotten my birthday. I knew that wouldn’t ever have happened, but the concept didn’t bother me at all.

Why was I so chipper? I couldn’t remember ever feeling so happy and excited. Something seemed to have shifted inside me, and it took all day for me to figure out what it was. It tied back to my recent discovery about my influence over my family dynamic.

Because my presence impacted people so profoundly, I could wield psychological power over them based on nothing more than my behavior. I could control people’s reactions to me because they feared me; because if we fear something, it controls us. So, basically, I controlled almost everyone I encountered. That was why my relatives depended on me for the health of our family unit. That was why kids felt compelled to harass me, so they could feel like they’d taken back the power I’d “stolen” from them. That was why my Housemates didn’t know how to act around me—it wasn’t an act of overt aggression; it was fear.

 _I could make people fear me with absolutely no effort._  

And now that I was aware of this fact, essentially understanding people better than they understood themselves, my Housemates had no idea what they were in for.

The realization made my heart rate speed up and I had to bite my lip to stop myself from cackling. What a birthday present. I had never felt so powerful in my life. 

I didn’t know what anyone would do if they discovered the truth, but I wasn’t willing to risk it. This was my little secret. I worked alone. At the tender age of thirteen, I was a one-woman army and I would let no one stand in my way.

*   *   *

Armed with my new knowledge, I began paying attention to people more purposefully. Instead of simply wanting to know the mechanics of how to behave normally, I now studied others’ interactions and their reactions to me through the lens of _What made this person do that? What emotion were they feeling before saying those words or moving their body that way?_ This focused approach made me realize that my Housemates’ apprehension was very similar to McGonagall’s behavior around me after the cauldron incident two years prior—they feared me because they saw me as unpredictable. They walked on eggshells around me because they lacked the self-awareness to understand how some of _their_ actions were offensive, and so they saw _me_ as the aggressor. And, though my peers had begun relaxing a bit as my outward presentation improved, Trelawney’s prediction had triggered a return to their initial responses. 

The downside of my psychological power over others was that, just as I’d always known since I was a toddler, I had to watch myself more than anyone else—I needed to cultivate greater self-awareness. I had to think before I spoke, every single time I felt the urge to speak. I had to be acutely aware of my facial expressions and body language, and how they impacted others’ perceptions of me. It felt painfully unfair on the surface, but it was a small price to pay for the control I was able to wield over my environment. No amount of magic could compare to that. 

This arrangement was the reason I tolerated Trelawney’s jumpiness around me for the rest of the school year. I could easily have called her out on her blatant un-favoritism, but that would have only called more negative attention to myself. I was responsible for blending in as best I could, not calling out insecure people on their bullshit. I plodded through Trelawney’s lessons, never speaking to her unless she spoke to me first. Which was almost never. Merlin, I couldn’t wait for that class to be over. 

*   *   * 

Divination may have been a bust, but I was thoroughly enjoying Defense Against the Dark Arts. We had yet another new teacher this year: a middle-aged brunette named Leonard Robbins. Professor Robbins was an ex-Auror who’d had enough encounters with Dark wizards and now wanted to dedicate his time to steering impressionable children away from the Dark Arts. He was kind, but extremely firm. No one had spoken out of turn in his class since the beginning of the year, which made lessons run smoothly.

During one class in February, I sat up in my seat and my eyes widened as Robbins told us that we would begin duelling practice. He then explained the rules of engagement: we first bowed to our opponents, cast only the spells we’d been learning about, and stopped before anyone became incapacitated. No deliberate acts of violence, no Unforgiveables, no yelling, no swearing. And we had to stop if Robbins told us to stop. 

It was simple enough. Though I wondered how much I could bend the rules.

Since the third-year Slytherins and Gryffindors shared this class, we all opted to face off against someone from the other House. It wasn’t even a discussion; it just happened. Robbins shook his head at the predictable inter-House enmity, but said nothing further. He instructed us to come up to the front of the classroom in pairs to duel in front of the class, so we would grow familiar with both observing and practicing the art.

I squirmed in my seat until it was my turn. The anticipation was killing me.

“Miss Halaway and Miss Burton!” Robbins finally called out after half the class had duelled. I jumped to my seat and all but skipped up to the front of the room with my Gryffindor opponent, freckle-faced Cynthia Burton. We bowed slowly—her more than me, as she attempted to drag out the moment before we actually started duelling—and raised our wands. 

 _“Rictusempra!”_ Cynthia called out.

 _“Protego! Avis!”_ I growled before the tickling spell had even left her lips. 

She swatted at the flock of birds swarming around her. _“Tarantallegra!”_  

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ I cried as my knees buckled under me. _“Furnunculus!"_ Even with uncontrollable dancing legs, I knew I had to channel my rage into defeating Cynthia. _“Engorgio!”_ I cast at her right arm. _“Incarcerous!”_  

She screamed and dropped to the floor as ropes wound around her body.

“MISS HALAWAY, ENOUGH!” Robbins shouted, and cast _Reducio_ to return Cynthia’s arm to its normal size.

That should have been the end of it, but I couldn’t stop. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins again. _“Relashio!”_ I screamed. _“Locomotor mortis! Levicorpus!”_  

Robbins suddenly lunged forward and grabbed my right arm, breaking my concentration. Cynthia fell to the floor with a yelp. “Detention after dinner, Miss Halaway! And I will also be sending a note to your Head of House!” 

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled, my lips trembling in fury. 

_Cynthia made me look stupid. Why should I have held back? She deserved what she got. And she’s lucky I didn’t do worse._

“You will report back here after you see Professor Snape. And no dawdling! Ten points from Slytherin!”

“Yes, sir.”

_Ten points from my House? Not okay. That little ginger bitch should get ten years off her life._

Robbins then ordered me back to my seat, and forbade me from participating in duelling practice for the next month. I banged my fist on my desk without thinking. Everyone jumped. 

“One more display of aggression like that,” Robbins threatened, “and we’ll make it two nights of detention, and ten more points from Slytherin. Sit still until the end of class!”

I crossed my arms and pressed my lips together as I stared blankly at the chalkboard behind my professor.

“Why is it always the Slytherins?” Robbins mumbled before returning his attention to the other students. I fidgeted and impatiently tapped my foot until the class period was over, rolling my eyes when Robbins wasn’t looking. 

*   *   *

“Remember to see Professor Snape before coming to my office!” called out Professor Robbins as I was leaving the Great Hall after dinner.

“Yes, sir, I know. I was already heading there.” _Don’t nag me like a forgetful child. I don’t need a fucking reminder._

“Are you giving me an attitude, young lady?”

“No, Professor. I promise I’ll come right to your office after I see my Head of House.” 

“Good. Off you go.”

I stomped off, not even trying to hide my displeasure—though I did take a deep breath and neutralize my body language before opening the classroom door.

“In trouble _again,_ are we, Miss Halaway?” drawled Professor Snape. 

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.” I dropped my gaze to the floor and sauntered over to his desk, trying to appear ashamed.

He sighed loudly. “Miss Halaway, I don’t need to tell you that you are an exemplary pupil and therefore an academic asset to Slytherin House. I have been very pleased with your work since your first year. However, your penchant for violence precedes you. And I, quite frankly, am fed up with your antics. You are thirteen and too old for this nonsense. Your behavior is a detriment to your character and to our House!

“If you cannot restrain yourself from acting out to preserve your own reputation, then at least think of the status we must uphold as Slytherins. We have lost too many points because of you. I know you are proud of being in this House, so show us that. Show us all what it means to be a proper Slytherin, and _stop_ giving other Houses fodder for looking down on us! Use your blatant self-importance to improve the standing of our House, since you clearly don’t care much for your own status.”

It appeared Snape was angrier at my besmirching the name of Slytherin more than what I’d actually done to Cynthia. No wonder he was Head of House. He and I clearly spoke the same language, so I couldn’t be _that_ pissy with him.

After a boring detention with Robbins, which consisted of cleaning his classroom without magic and then writing an apology note to Cynthia, I trudged back to the Slytherin dungeons too tired to be angry any longer. The physical exertion of cleaning for hours had sapped my energy—which was probably a blessing at that point.

Snape’s words echoed in my head the next day. I mulled them over, weighing the pros and cons of setting an example for younger students vs. seeing how far I could push the envelope without being disciplined. The latter gave me a thrill like nothing else, and I simply couldn’t ignore its pull—I never was a classic Good Girl, no matter how hard I tried to be. I had put so much effort into it for so long, and all I got in return was burnout. 

If I could just figure out exactly how to toe the line, I would have a shot at avoiding further punishment. But how to achieve that? 

Why, more social experimentation, of course. Since I enjoyed stirring shit up just for the fuck of it, I figured I could have some fun with my little research project. 

At our next choir practice, Flitwick was teaching us a song called “Something Wicked This Way Comes.” It was an amusing little tune, with lyrics like “Eye of newt and toe of frog/Wool of bat and tongue of dog,” and “In the cauldron boil and bake/Fillet of a fenny snake.” In the refrain, we were supposed to sing, “Double, double, toil and trouble/Fire, burn and cauldron, bubble.” Just to see what would happen, I instead sang, “Ohh, I like causing trouble/Cast a curse and kill a Muggle.” The girl standing next to me squeaked in surprise, and Flitwick held his baton in midair while he stared at me. 

“Those aren’t the words!” my neighbor hissed. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What were you just singing, Miss Halaway?” Flitwick asked tentatively. He didn’t want to believe what he’d actually heard.

I repeated the real lyrics with no expression on my face. Since I displayed no hint of shame or mischief, and the nearby students were too scared to confront me, Flitwick had no choice but to continue the rehearsal. I grinned broadly as I continued singing—the proper words this time. Everyone’s reactions had been mildly amusing, but too much of a hassle to fend off regularly. Joking about murder was clearly off the table. 

It was around this time when a few of my classmates began speaking to me normally again. The old tension was still there, and likely always would be, but the impact of Trelawney’s freakout was fading. Though my classmates may have been warming up to me, I was still quite displeased with them for the way they had judged me. And I wouldn’t let them forget it.

Felix was the only one who actually apologized—but I didn’t let him off the hook that easily. And plus, I just wanted to gauge his reaction to my psychological experimentation.

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you about Trelawney,” he mumbled one evening in the common room.

“I don’t believe you,” I deadpanned.

I didn’t actually feel one way or another; I just wanted to see what would happen if I didn’t accept his apology. It always bothered me that when someone said they were sorry, the other person was automatically supposed to forgive them—because what if they didn’t? Did people have to say, “It’s okay,” or “I forgive you” just to make the offender feel better?

I didn’t like being responsible for other people’s emotions. No one was responsible for mine.

“Are you serious?” Sarah demanded, standing up and walking over to Felix. “You want us to stop judging you for what Trelawney said, but you won’t accept an apology?”       

_Shit. This is not what I’d anticipated. If they start ganging up on me—_

“How can you be so obnoxious?” Felix added.

 _How do I fix this, how do I fix this...shit...shit...shit...a-HA!_  

“Felix, you all have made me feel like nothing but an afterthought for three years, and I’m suddenly supposed to believe that you care about my feelings? _You’re_ the one who’s offended?” 

“I—”

“Can you really blame me for being suspicious of your apology?”

 _Drive the point home. Play the wounded animal. It works every time._  

Felix’s shoulders slumped, and Sarah suddenly found her shoes in need of a staring contest.

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I really am sorry,” Felix said in a small voice. “I don’t think anyone wants you to feel bad about—”

“It doesn’t matter what you _wanted_ me to feel; it’s what _happened.”_  

 _There we go. That was, at least, believable. And quite different from “I was just using you for experimentation because I was curious what would happen. Oops.”_  

Felix and Sarah looked torn, but ultimately guilty for judging my motives. They quietly slinked away. 

So, now I knew what happened when a person didn’t accept an apology, and it wasn’t pretty. But at least I’d quickly figured out how to cover my tracks well enough.

I breathed a sigh of relief and returned to my book. Through all of its potholes and obstacle courses, at least weilding psychological power over others was always exciting. 

*   *   * 

The next few months passed quietly. Classes continued as expected, with no shakeups or drama or detentions. I found myself enjoying the predictability, as I didn’t have to be on high-alert quite as much. However, my alertness increased dramatically in late March—specifically, in History of Magic.

Though transparent Professor Binns had never been an animated instructor, I suddenly found myself interested his lectures when he began teaching a unit on the rise and fall of Lord Voldemort, more commonly known as You Know Who and He Who Must Not Be Named. I never understood everyone’s fear over speaking his name—it was just a word. A word by itself meant nothing unless people chose to give it significance. Which they obviously did.

We learned that Voldemort—pardon me, You Know Who—had once been a Hogwarts student named Tom Marvolo Riddle. He had grown up in a Muggle orphanage, where his witch mother had died giving birth to him, and received a visit from Dumbledore when he was eleven to explain the existence of magic.

While a student at Hogwarts, Riddle began amassing followers in his fellow Slytherins, who began calling themselves Death Eaters. They espoused a hatred of Muggles and magical folk who were not Pureblood, and sought to change the Wizarding world accordingly. I thought it strange because Riddle himself was a Halfblood, but I guess his followers either didn’t know or didn’t care because they saw him as superior and wanted to be associated with him. Despite his prejudiced views, Riddle became a Prefect and eventually Head Boy in his seventh year, before disappearing for a decade and resurfacing under his new moniker. Very few knew who Voldemort really was before his downfall on Halloween of 1981—a year after he’d heard a prophecy about a boy named Harry Potter who would have the power to vanquish him. He decided to eliminate the threat.

Voldemort first attempted to kill Potter when the boy was a year old. He succeeded in killing his parents, who refused to back down, but somehow failed at destroying the baby. He disappeared, having disintegrated somehow because his Killing Curse had rebounded onto him. Most people thought he was dead, but those who knew him best never doubted that he would come back—and even now, there were rumors that he wasn’t even dead at all; merely in hiding.

No one knew what made Potter so powerful that he’d been able to defeat one of the most accomplished wizards in the world, especially as a baby, but he did it all the same. Voldemort had had the last laugh, though—in 1993, Potter had ventured into a hidden lair called the Chamber of Secrets with his friend Ronald Weasley and professor Gilderoy Lockhart, in an attempt to rescue Ronald’s sister, Ginny. They had all perished. Eight years later, we still had no information on the whereabouts of the Chamber of Secrets, or how four wizards had ended up dying there. Either way, speculations had resurfaced: some people were certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Voldemort had never died and was probably residing in this elusive Chamber of Secrets; while others adamantly believed he had perished in 1981 and could never return.

I was intrigued.

Had Voldemort been involved in the mysterious deaths? Was he still out there somewhere, biding his time before once more attempting to take over the Wizarding world? Since Potter had been able to defeat him as a baby, maybe Voldemort had just gotten lucky and someone else had killed the kid. Nobody knew for sure.

What would it mean for the Wizarding world if he really _was_ back? We discussed this in History of Magic for the next few weeks, touching on topics ranging from the education of Muggleborns to the fate of Magical/Muggle relations around the world. We had a few intense debates, as some students tried to sway everyone in favor of separating the magical population vs. keeping everyone integrated. I remained silent and simply observed—though I didn’t see the big deal about blood status, I found these disputes riveting and paid close attention. Voldemort was clearly a fascinating and influential person, to be able to inspire such heated arguments years after his defeat.

I decided I needed to learn more about this man. 

There were a few books in the library that discussed Voldemort’s history, and I read them while taking breaks from my homework. I considered checking them out; but the last thing I needed was a record of my name next to a book about the most feared Dark wizard of all time. 

My favorite of these tomes was The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. It explored Voldemort’s entire life, starting with his troubled childhood and ending with Halloween of 1981. The epilogue was essentially a written version of our History of Magic debates, leaving the reader to wonder what would happen in the coming years if we learned that Voldemort was dead or alive. 

I began to wonder, too. I figured my family would be safe, as Purebloods, so I wasn’t too concerned about personal safety—if anything, I viewed the unstable atmosphere as if it were an experiment I was observing from a distance. I supposed I should have been frightened or disturbed at the thought of a powerful, malevolent wizard controlling the government; but if anything, I found it more interesting than scary. Regardless of what would happen over the next few years, I wanted to watch the scene from a bird’s-eye view, purely out of intellectual (and morbid) curiosity.

This definitely fell under the category of things I couldn’t tell my parents about.

*   *   *

There wasn’t much I felt comfortable telling my parents about. And how could I? My thought process was entirely outside their realm of understanding. To make myself appear more normal, I used softened language in my letters to them as I talked about my slightly-improved social situation. This tactic appeared to work. 

My parents were still grieving for Grandma Pearl, but they said that each day grew easier. My father had taken some time off—much later than he should have done, considering that he’d been drowning himself in his work all summer—and he had begun seeing a grief counselor in February. This news surprised me, as I’d always thought him the type to accept the past and move on quickly so as not to miss the present moment. Unfortunately, that forward-thinking attitude had also become a method of repressing pain instead of dealing with it promptly. With his mother’s death, his avoidance had caught up with him and he’d realized he needed help.

As I was still very young, my parents weren’t giving me all the details of his treatment, but they told me enough that I got the picture. I knew that his mother had been an abusive woman who had made my father feel responsible for taking care of himself and his younger sisters—neither of whom had amounted to much. I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d seen either of them. 

His mother had married at eighteen to escape her own toxic home life, running away with the first man who ever wanted her. The marriage was a disaster, but my grandmother had stayed because she’d had nowhere else to go, and had already borne three children. She morphed into a self-pitying spectre who believed the world was against her and everyone around her had to suffer for it; she neglected her children the way her husband neglected her, as she knew no other way. As a result, my father had been forced to grow up much earlier than he should have. He took to running errands for neighbors to pay for his and his sisters’ clothes, as his good-for-nothing father was gambling away most of the family’s finances. By the time he was old enough to set out on his own, he’d already cultivated a ruthless business sense and a fierce need for independence. 

Unfortunately, his relationship with his mother never improved, even after Morgan and I were born. He’d tried relentlessly to integrate her with his growing family, but there was always some ailment preventing her from leaving the house. She never even visited me in the hospital after I was born, citing that she lacked the strength to Apparate or even Floo such a long distance. _Don’t expect me to babysit; that’s not my job!_ she’d snapped at my parents during one visit, striking a yawning, gaping chasm into their relationship. 

And now, years later, my father was left grappling with the loss of the caring, nurturing mother he’d never had. His treatment was working, but it was still quite difficult.

I sat with the news for a while, wondering why his story resonated so well with me—and then I understood. 

 _My dad had to grow up too soon, and everyone he lived with took his struggle for granted. He didn’t learn how to express his needs until he was an adult and no longer felt responsible for everyone around him._  

Perhaps there was a pattern here. I only hoped I could one day figure out how to break it.

*   *   * 

The last Saturday of term started out as a perfectly ordinary day. Students lounged around, mozied in and out of the Great Hall for meals, and studied for finals. I spent the day holed up in a corner of the library, dutifully finishing my homework—I was still at the top of the class and felt confident that I would remain there. I smiled about my academic success as I began walking back to the Slytherin dungeons, reviewing my coursework in my head. 

And then chaos erupted. 

An older student suddenly ran into the hallway and screamed, “THERE’S A DEATH EATER AT HOGWARTS! DEATH EATER ON THE GROUNDS!! TAKE COVER!”

 _A Death Eater?_ I thought. _One of Voldemort’s followers? How the—_

“Move it!” a Ravenclaw shouted as he slammed into me on the way to his common room. More students followed, until the corridor became a swarm of shouts and panicked faces. 

_Okay, this isn’t a prank. Curiosity be damned—I need to hide._

I sprinted all the way back to the dungeons and ran into the common room with the gaggle of frightened Slytherins frantically fleeing the scene.

Though we were in the dungeons, we could still hear screams and crashes as curses flew. I tried not to giggle as I felt a warm swell in my belly—for the first time, I was with a group of peers who were feeling exactly what I felt. I wasn’t an outcast. We were all talking about the same thing and emotionally clinging to each other in a way—odd for Slytherins, but this wasn’t your average Saturday evening. There was an assassin somewhere upstairs and any child in their right mind would be scared. At least a little bit. 

Over the next twenty minutes, more and more Slytherins piled into the common room with bits and pieces of information.

In a nutshell, there was a battle going on. People were being murdered or injured. We continued speculating the cause until someone finally came in with the answer.

Somehow, a Death Eater named Bellatrix Lestrange had snuck into Hogwarts and started the fracas raging upstairs. Most students had run to take cover, but some older kids had chosen to stay and fight—for either side. Bellatrix only left after McGonagall had fought her off. No one knew how Bellatrix had gotten into or out of the castle; all we knew was that we weren’t leaving the Slytherin common room until a teacher came to tell us it was safe. 

We remained in place for two hours. 

A somber Professor Snape entered the common room after what felt like an eternity, and told us that the threat had been eliminated. No, Bellatrix hadn’t perished, but she was out of the castle and would never come back. The teachers had (supposedly) discovered her method of entry and destroyed it.

Snape told us that the Great Hall was in ruins, some portraits on the walls had been decimated, and there was debris everywhere. Many students and professors were now in the hospital wing, being cared for by a frantic Madam Pomfrey.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Bellatrix had murdered the Headmaster. The esteemed Albus Dumbledore was dead.


	13. Tom | 1999

The fever, the focus  
The reasons that I had to believe you weren't too hard to sell  
Die young and save yourself  
The tickle, the taste of  
It used to be the reason I breathed, but now it's choking me up  
Die young and save yourself

—Brand New ~ “Sic Transit Gloria...Glory Fades”

 

Draco Malfoy was the biggest coward I had ever known. He spent his entire childhood trying to impress everyone around him, while doing absolutely nothing to back up his claims of grandeur. As I’d known all along, underneath all the posturing was a scared little boy who knew that he would never amount to anything.

And it would be great fun to prove that to everyone.

I had spent Christmas and New Year’s with the Malfoys, and observed some interesting changes in their dynamic. Having been away from their everyday interactions for a few years, the nuanced shifts in everyone’s behavior were more apparent to me than they were to the family. 

For example, Draco was now of age and had all but stopped his shallow bragging. He had been working with Lucius since the fall, and the sudden change from school to the adult world must have sobered him. He always reported to work on time, kept to himself instead of boasting to his coworkers about trivial issues, and learned very quickly that his free passes at Hogwarts did not extend to the Ministry—sure, he’d been privileged to take a high-paying job alongside his father, but his good luck ended there. Some of his coworkers were the parents of children he’d once harassed, and were none too pleased to see the haughty young man in close proximity. He’d suffered through a handful of disciplinary meetings during his first month of employment, littered with verbal warnings and pay suspensions, until he finally got the message. Lucius and Narcissa were clearly embarrassed about this development, but said nothing; they believed their precious son had been punished enough.

Narcissa was as nervous as Draco, if not more. Having me under her roof now affected her more than it had when I had first arrived on their doorstep in 1993, as I had accomplished so much since then. I was no longer a rogue Dark wizard with no place to stay, only a small following, and plans she doubted that I could execute. I was now more powerful than I’d ever been, with decades of magical knowledge at my fingertips and an immortal young body.

Like I’d done in the 1960s, I was once again causing waves of tension and fear to permeate the Wizarding world, reminding Narcissa of exactly how influential I was. She’d been forced to attend years of Death Eater meetings, watch me torture and kill those who displeased me, and grow even more formidable with each passing year. She could no longer fall back on her denial from six years past, when she had secretly hoped that I might no longer be as strong after rising from the diary—she’d wished that the Dark magic behind my ascension would have damaged something in my body, or lessened my magical ability. It wasn’t natural to be approaching old age with the exact body one had had as a teenager! Surely, something had gone wrong to make me a shadow of my former glory...and thereby prevent her and her family from having to serve me as loyally as they’d done in the past! A convenient thought, that.

As a result of her denial, Narcissa felt betrayed in some twisted way that made sense only to her. She avoided me whenever possible and couldn’t even stand to look at me, with the exception of a few hesitant glances when I spoke to her. Her responses were always short and delivered in a shaky, feather-light tone. She sometimes shifted on her feet and anxiously rubbed the back of her neck, willing the conversation to finish so she could get away from me.

Lucius was still as spineless as ever, hiding behind his wealth and privilege to feel important. Everyone knew that Draco learned that behavior from his father; but no one had the courage to confront him over it, except for his young cousin. 

Margo and Lucius were no longer screaming at each other, instead communicating their disagreements through harsh looks, exaggerated body language, and the occasional stint of the silent treatment. She’d become so disenchanted with his babying of his son that she didn’t even bother wasting her energy to fight him over it. 

She did, however, make quite a stand before returning to Hogwarts at the beginning of January: she told Lucius that even though she wasn’t Draco’s biggest fan, she was still a Malfoy and wanted to do the family proud. She reminded her cousin that she was on track to become a Prefect in the fall, just like Draco had been, and encouraged Lucius not to lose heart over the fate of the family name—he had poured so much energy into Draco’s potential that it had driven more of a wedge between Margo and himself. Lucius patted her on the shoulder in response, slumping for a moment, before he stalked off to his study to think. Draco had been relaxing in his bedroom during this time, and likely would never know what had happened. 

Speaking of Draco, I alerted his parents that it was time for him to prove his worth to me. He was old enough now.

I met with Lucius and Narcissa after Margo returned to Hogwarts, one evening when Draco was working overtime. We sat silently in the parlor for a moment, while Dobby fussed around bringing everyone tea. The tension was palpable. It was hard for me not to laugh.

“What brings you here today, my Lord?” Narcissa asked as politely as possible.

“I think you know the answer to that,” I replied, staring back at her. “It is time for Draco to become a Death Eater. I believe that he is now at an appropriate age; but I will not simply ask him to kneel and bestow the Dark Mark on his arm—oh no. The Malfoy family has served me impeccably well for decades, and I believe we need a special initiation for Draco.” 

His parents’ eyes widened as they attempted to repress their anxiety. 

“Since I have been betrayed by cowards and traitors far too many times, I have decided to alter my methods of bringing new blood into the fold. Each prospective Death Eater must now pass a test I assign to them, after which I will summon the rest of the clan to witness the initiation. It will be a celebration of sorts. It’s time we make this a bigger spectacle, no? Higher stakes for joining me, and higher rewards after the fact. It’s only fair.”

“Y-yes, my Lord. I understand,” Lucius murmured. “What would you like Draco to do? Will he be performing certain spells or—”

“Oh, no, my friend. Something much more worthwhile. He must murder Albus Dumbledore.” 

“I—”

“Save your protests, Narcissa,” I scolded. I had abandoned the fake-happy lilt in my voice and replaced it with a sinister tone. “Either Draco kills Dumbledore, or I kill Draco. And perhaps the two of you as well, if you attempt to shield him from his responsibilities—something I know you have considered doing for a few years. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my Lord,” they both whispered, trying to hide their mortification that I knew of their secret wishes. 

“Good! I’m glad we understand each other. Now, I am fully aware that Dumbledore spends most of his time at Hogwarts, and Draco cannot simply walk through the front door and confront his old Headmaster. I have a few ideas for how the boy can complete his assignment, and I will share one of them with you—but he must solve the puzzle himself.”

“Oh! So you—”

“Yes, Narcissa, I can be merciful when I so choose! Consider yourselves lucky. I have taken into account your husband’s success in helping orchestrate my return six years ago, and I will therefore offer this one small clue: tell Draco to express interest in the Vanishing Cabinet that resides in Borgin and Burkes. You have the money; perhaps you should purchase the enchanting antique that hasn’t left the floor in years.”

The Malfoys looked befuddled. “I—we don’t understand what—”

“Draco will understand if he puts his mind to the task. I remember a letter he sent you during his fifth year, in which he described a student being shoved into a Vanishing Cabinet at Hogwarts and nearly dying before returning to the school. I have nothing more to say on the subject, only that the assignment must be completed by the end of the summer. Good day to you!”

Before they could formulate a response, I stood up and strode out of the Manor. I chuckled to myself as I walked through my front door, pondering what the Malfoys must be thinking and saying to each other. Though I didn’t feel like going back, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like for me to be able to see inside someone’s home without being there. Maybe that could be another of my research projects one day. I filed the idea in the back of my mind for later.

*   *   * 

A couple of weeks after my discussion with the Malfoys, Lucius told me that they had purchased the Vanishing Cabinet from Borgin and Burkes. Draco hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with it, and avoided even looking at the antique until a few more months had passed, when the gravity of his responsibilities finally hit him. After work each night, he began fiddling with it to see if it possessed any hidden enchantments or messages to help him succeed in killing Dumbledore. 

I knew exactly what the enchantment was, but I wasn’t telling him: the Vanishing Cabinet possessed a twin in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts, and the two cabinets formed a passage—a passage that was currently broken. Hence the student nearly dying when he’d entered the Vanishing Cabinet at Hogwarts. Draco could likely figure out a way to fix the passageway, enter Hogwarts, and ambush the Headmaster. For all his pigheadedness, he _was_ a bright boy. I was sure he could solve the problem.

Sure enough, Draco had long since suspected the broken passageway’s existence, since the debacle with his unfortunate classmate the previous year. Motivated by the threat of death, he hastily set to work on mending the channel. Lucius wrote me often to detail his son’s progress over the next two months. 

The task was perilous because the Cabinet at Hogwarts was faulty. Draco kept finding himself in Vanishing Cabinet Limbo while inventing and experimenting with different spells to send himself from one Cabinet to the other. 

According to Lucius’s letters, Draco was terrified from all this experimentation and doubted his ability to complete the task. I could easily have instructed Draco to write me himself; but I didn’t trust the little windbag to be honest—hence my decision to have his father report his activities to me. After a while, I began to wonder if Draco would perform his initiation successfully. How many Malfoys would remain by the end of the summer? 

*   *   * 

The more time passed, the more fearful Draco grew. Lucius’s letters—and thoughts during Death Eater meetings—revealed that his son was growing closer to losing his nerve day by day. Outside of work, he spent all his free time in front of the Vanishing Cabinet, trying spell after spell to fix the passageway to Hogwarts. There had been no improvement. 

His terror spilled over into his professional life, and he suddenly began avoiding the Manor in favor of working longer hours. Some nights, he didn’t arrive home until after Lucius and Narcissa had gone to bed. Lucius pleaded with his son for weeks to come home at a reasonable hour, assuring him that no harm would befall him if he put off various Ministry tasks until later, but the boy would not be moved. (He didn’t just want Draco to avoid working himself to death; he also wanted as much time with his son as possible because he feared the boy’s life could be nearing its end.) When his parents asked him for updates on his assignment from me, Draco blew them off and said that he’d had too much work to complete that day. Again.

He also had begun eating less, while isolating himself at home and at work. The coworkers with whom he’d grown casually friendly were now distancing themselves from him, as his erratic behavior disturbed them. Even I grew a bit tense at this news—if Draco were not thinking clearly, he could end up with a target on his back.

And he almost did. 

Yaxley caught a glimpse of him one afternoon, as the frazzled boy had neglected to close his office door. The sight inside troubled the older man: parchment and quills strewn everywhere, a shattered water goblet on the floor, and a shaking Draco crying in a corner. Yaxley stormed into the office, slammed the door, and demanded an explanation for Draco’s meltdown. Draco babbled something about stress and fear and his initiation, prompting Yaxley to slap him across the face. He reminded Draco that we hadn’t taken over the Ministry quite yet, so he needed to get his act together and keep his head down if he didn’t want to arouse suspicions.

And how did I know all of this? Because Yaxley summoned me himself as soon as he arrived home from work that night. The man was barely able to contain his fury when I Apparated to his home. 

“You called?” I asked. 

“Yes, my Lord. I’m afraid we may have a problem with Draco Malfoy.” 

I frowned. “What is it? What has he done?” 

“I caught him in the middle of a mental breakdown this afternoon. His bloody office door was wide open—I have no idea how many others may have seen him, or what they might be saying about him now.” 

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake! What was he going on about?”

“He’s losing his composure over his Death Eater initiation. His terror is interfering with his work. He’s not...functioning well. And others at the Ministry have been whispering about him lately. I slapped some sense into him before anyone else could see his condition, but I still don’t trust him to behave himself.”

“Well, if he dies from the stress of it all, then it’ll be one less problem on our hands.”

“I mean no disrespect, my Lord, but I believe the boy to be a liability. He’s calling attention to himself. He may blow his cover, or someone else’s, in our affiliation with you. Might it be—ah, might he not have been a wise choice for an incoming Death Eater? He clearly doesn’t have the stomach. We are only as strong as we are d—” 

“Come off it, Yaxley. I know the saying!” I snapped. “And, quite frankly, I don’t expect him to pass my test; but that is the whole _point_ of an initiation: to weed out the weak links. You don’t believe I’ve thought this through?”

“I apologize, my Lord, I meant no—”

I waved him off. “I share your concern. No need to apologize. Lucius has been updating me on his son’s progress on my test; but I doubt he would have shared such damning information, so I thank you for informing me. Keep an eye out at the Ministry, and let me know if the boy acts out again.”

Yaxley agreed to watch Draco as much as he could without looking suspicious himself—working in different departments, Yaxley couldn’t shadow the boy without catching unwanted attention of his own. 

Draco remained out of the spotlight for a few weeks after that, but then created another disturbance at work. And this one was a lot more serious than his last. Lucius only told me because I owled him about my conversation with Yaxley; he knew that nothing escaped my scrutiny, and anyone trying to evade me would end up dead or grievously injured.

During a meeting, a few of Draco’s coworkers remarked on how much they despised the Death Eaters. Lucius positioned himself in the discussion, mirroring their views just to appear normal. Attempting to include Draco in the conversation, one of them asked what he would do if he found out someone he loved were associated with me—or if I attempted to recruit him. The boy had not been able to prepare himself, and had to fight off another wave of terror at the question. Though he did finally spout off something about refusing to answer the door if Death Eaters came knocking, and trying to talk sense into anyone he knew who professed loyalty to me, his initial reaction had clearly made his coworkers wonder if he was hiding a dark secret. One of them “jokingly” asked him if she’d just caught him with his pants down— _was_ he trying to join me? _Did_ he know anyone in my ranks? Draco laughed off the teasing, but barely. Had I been there, I would have immediately slaughtered Draco and Obliviated everyone in the room.

Since my takeover of the Ministry was far from complete, I couldn’t exactly indulge in that desire—but I certainly could lay down the law for Draco another way. I Apparated to Malfoy Manor without announcing myself, the day after the incident in the departmental meeting. The boy didn’t deserve a warning. 

The whole family jumped as I burst through the door to the dining room. Forks clattered, chairs creaked. I silently appraised them all, daring them to look away, before my eyes fell on the shaking failure sitting next to Margo. 

“Draco,” I ordered. “Come with me. We’re having a conference.” 

“Wh-what—?” 

“Immediately. This is not a negotiation.” I pointed my wand at him and gestured for him to get up. He swallowed hard and obeyed.

I took him into the parlor and sat him down in the chair across from mine. Neither of us spoke for a long moment.

“How is work treating you?” I asked in mock concern, with one side of my mouth upturned slightly. 

“I—what? I don’t—” 

My smirk disappeared instantly. “I will not mince my words, Draco. You have become a liability. And you know what happens to weaklings in my ranks.”

“M-my Lord, I can—”

“Save the excuses.” I held up my hand to silence him. “You had a nervous breakdown in front of Yaxley, _with your office door wide open,_ and then you nearly revealed your status as a prospective Death Eater at a meeting—along with your fear of getting caught! And I _know_ you’re not working on that Vanishing Cabinet anymore. Do you think me lenient? Merciful? Ignorant?”

“I...”

“Stupid?!”

Draco’s eyes widened. “N-no, my Lord! I would never insult you or—”

“You _know_ the mental discipline I require of my followers. Why are you allowing your emotions to get the best of you, to the point that you forget to close your office door before breaking down in tears like a toddler? Are you _asking_ to be killed? If so, I would be _more_ than happy to oblige.”

“No! I—”

“Why haven’t you given any thought to preparing yourself for a conversation such as the one you had this afternoon? Tell me your thought process. I’m _itching_ to hear it.” 

“I—I wasn’t thinking about what would—I didn’t think that would happen yesterday, I swear. I promise, had I known they would talk about you, I would have—” 

“Your procrastination stops now. Your childish behavior at the Ministry is over. If I hear one more _whisper_ of your drawing attention to yourself at work, I will kill one member of your family. Slowly. In front of you. And you will be immobilized throughout the process.”

“I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt them! I promise I won’t—”

“—and if you delay working on mending the Vanishing Cabinet a moment longer, I will sever your right arm. Will you really attempt to murder Dumbledore with your weaker arm, and hope to come out unscathed? What do you think will happen if I send you into battle with one arm? I’d expect you to be killed immediately. It would certainly save _me_ the trouble.”

Draco shuddered.

“If you don’t kill Dumbledore, I will kill you. And possibly your parents as well, depending on my mood. Do you really want to anger me, Draco?” 

His bleary eyes dropped to his lap. “No, my Lord. I won’t disobey you.”

“You’d better not. You will perform your initation before the summer is out, no matter what. Now, get upstairs and work on that Vanishing Cabinet. I’m not leaving for another hour. I will be watching your progress tonight.”

The boy shuddered again before rising on shaky legs. I followed him up to the third floor, where the Cabinet rested against a bedroom wall, and seated myself in an armchair a few feet from Draco.

I didn’t expect him to make any progress, especially with me sitting right next to him; I was merely punishing him further. He should have been grateful that I did nothing more to torment him that night. 

By the time I returned home, I’d lost track of how many times Draco had wheezed and whispered, “I’m so sorry, my Lord, I’m doing the best I can!” As he bloody should have been doing all along. 

And finally, the notes on his bad behavior ceased. His coworkers no longer seemed worried about his sanity or political affiliations. I heard no more reports from frustrated Death Eaters who had seen him act out. 

And finally, Draco Malfoy began to truly grow up. 

*   *   * 

In the middle of July, a letter from Lucius brought the announcement I’d been waiting for: Draco had finally mended the passage. That morning, he had stepped into the Vanishing Cabinet in the parlor and ended up in the Room of Requirement. I was elated—about that stage of Draco’s assignment, anyway. As I’d mentioned to Yaxley, there was no telling whether or not the boy could actually carry out the deed once he’d located Dumbledore. 

He picked the 25th of July as the day he would sneak into Hogwarts and lure Dumbledore to the Ministry of Magic, where the Death Eaters who worked there would ambush him and give Draco room to strike. I asked Lucius how Draco could possibly accomplish this—Dumbledore was a highly skilled Legilimens, and could easily see through whatever story Draco had concocted. Lucius assured me that Bellatrix had been teaching his son Occlumency, and the boy’s skills were now sufficient enough that he could lie convincingly to Dumbledore. 

I was skeptical. I told Lucius that I would join him at the Ministry once everyone was there—either Draco would kill Dumbledore, or I would. It was time for the old man to die. 

On the afternoon in question, I went to Malfoy Manor and watched as Draco stepped inside the Vanishing Cabinet. Severus was there as well, to Apparate inside the Ministry with Lucius under a Disillusionment Charm. Narcissa wished then luck as they departed.

Lucius (and invisible Severus) then gathered the Gilmores, Yaxley, and the Montecores to aid in the upcoming battle. After leading them to his office, they changed into their Death Eater robes and then stormed the Atrium. I waited at Malfoy Manor for about fifteen minutes before Lucius pressed his Dark Mark to summon me, and I Disapparated. 

I landed in a corner of the Atrium, unacknowledged by Dumbledore and the Ministry employees who were dueling my masked henchmen. I hadn’t expected the Headmaster to have others fighting with him, but I supposed he fancied himself one step ahead.

Drawing my wand, I observed the scene and quickly spotted Draco dueling a Ministry worker who was determined to protect Dumbledore. 

Snape, now visible, rushed over to aid Draco and brandished his wand. Draco faltered and his eyes darted around for an escape. 

 _“Sectumsempra!”_ shouted Snape. His opponent fell to the floor as several carmine gashes appeared on his body.

 _Well now, that’s an interesting spell,_ I thought.  _I wonder if he invented that. I’ll ask him later._

As Dumbledore was holding his own and showing no signs of fatigue, I decided it was time to make my presence known. A jet of bright green light shot from my wand as I killed a Ministry worker who was dueling Sinjin.

Everyone froze. No Unforgiveables had been cast yet, and no one knew the identity of the dashing young man who had just committed murder. No one, that is, except Dumbledore. He gave an involuntary shudder as he locked eyes with the image of his former student, unable to comprehend how I looked as I had back in my Hogwarts days. 

Draco looked like he was trying not to soil himself—he hadn’t known that I would show up and he would have to kill Dumbledore in front of me. Through Legilimency, I had seen that he’d toyed with the idea of convincing one of the others to carry out the deed for him, but that option was now off the table. 

“Who—who is that?” someone asked.

Dumbledore’s jaw set firmly as he walked toward me. He raised his wand to cast a spell, but I Apparated behind him and ducked as he whirled around and attempted to curse me again. 

“It was foolish of you to come here tonight, Tom,” he scolded gravely. “You are outnumbered. The Minister is on his way. He will be bringing Aurors.”

“By which time I shall be gone, and you shall be dead,” I spat.

“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid.”

“You think you can fight me off, old man?”

“Certainly. I have always thwarted your efforts to become all-powerful. That will not change just because you have found a way back to your young body.” He attempted to curse me again, spouting off spell after spell. Instead of incapacitating me, all he did was drive me back about twenty feet as I deflected his attacks. I found it odd that I had threatened his life, and yet he was making no attempt to threaten mine to save his own. 

“You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore?” I taunted. “Despite the knowledge that I murdered Harry Potter and his comrades, you still don’t wish me the same fate? Above such brutality, are you?” 

“We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom,” he replied calmly. “Regardless of what you did to poor young Harry, merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit.” 

“There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!” 

“You are quite wrong,” he insisted, walking toward me once more and speaking as lightly as though we were discussing the matter over drinks. “Indeed, your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness—” 

“Weakness? Are you daft? My dear old professor, I have achieved the unattainable! I have outperformed all those before me who sought eternal life—even the late and great Nicolas Flamel! I have become immortal at last, and nothing you do can reverse that! You cannot stop me! I am invincible! How dare you call me weak now?!” I was seething, rage tearing through my veins and nearly blurring my vision.

By this time, everyone had lowered their wands and froze in place, eyes transfixed on Dumbledore and me. It seemed they were afraid to even breathe too loudly. 

Dumbledore pretended not to notice the gawking spectators as he continued talking down to me like a misguided child.

“Your weakness lies in your arrogance and your fear of your own humanity,” he said. “You are not better than anyone else, simply because you are brilliant and accomplished—though I hesitate to call some of your deeds accomplishments, I must say.”

“What you consider weakness I consider the greatest power and virtue! I hold immesurable advantage over each and every one of you here, and will achieve more than you could ever hope to do. How can you be so blind as to think my accomplishments weak? _You’re_ the weak one, old man! You are blinded by your desire to right old wrongs to prevent others from seeing who you truly are! Do you really think no one knows about the scandals of your youth? Do you fashion yourself some kind of saint because you renounced the ways of _dear_ old Gr—”

“That is _not_ relevant to your bastardized idea of success!” Dumbledore scolded as his withered cheeks darkened. He faltered ever so slightly—the gesture was so subtle and rapid, I doubt anyone even noticed it. But I did.

“HA! You see? You realize that I have learned of your past exploits. No amount of saintly activity can erase your history, Dumbledore! You are not better than I am!”

“That you seek to avoid responsibility for _your_ mistakes by calling attention to _mine_ only proves my point.” He raised his wand once more. “You will pay for your crimes, Tom. I can promise you that. I will—”

 _“Avada Kedavra!”_ I growled, cutting off his words, but not his life. He spun out of the spell’s path and cast another curse at me. He missed.

“Tom?” a Ministry employee asked Dumbledore. “Tom _who?_ Who _is_ that man?”

“Tom Riddle. A former student of mine who grew up to be the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time,” Dumbledore answered. “I do not call him by his chosen name.”

And then they knew. 

Screams and gasps erupted from all around. Ministry employees who had been battling the Death Eaters fell back and scattered.

Dumbledore waved his wand as though brandishing a whip. A long, thin flame flew from the tip and wrapped itself around me. For a moment, Dumbledore thought he’d won, but then I transformed the fiery rope into a serpent. It relinquished its hold on me at once and turned, hissing furiously, to face Dumbledore. The snake reared from the floor, ready to strike. As Dumbledore brandished his wand in a long, fluid movement to extinguish the flames, I saw the younger Malfoy approaching. His wand arm, though shaky, was pointed toward the Headmaster.

“NOW, DRACO!” I shouted.

Lucius began inching toward his son, who was shaking as he extended his wand as slowly as possible to delay the action he knew he must take.

“DON’T YOU DARE HELP HIM!” I bellowed at Lucius. “This is _his_ task, not yours! You don’t even have the courage, as it is!”

Dumbledore shook his head and sighed. “Ahh, Tom, I know you have ordered the Malfoy boy to murder me. I saw it in his mind before allowing him to bring me here. Did you truly believe that your ambush would surprise me?”

“Surprise was not the goal of Draco’s assignment!”

“Forgive me, Tom, but I can’t help but wonder if Draco was the best choice in carrying out your orders. Surely, you don’t believe this boy to be an assassin like yourself.”

“His job is to prove that to me, old man! Either _he_ kills _you,_ or _I_ kill _him!_ He _knows_ this! He may be a braggart, but he’s not thick!”

While I’d been arguing with Dumbledore, the braggart had slowly begun creeping toward the Floo grates. And his father was not that far behind.

_Ohh, you two will pay for this._

Draco was sobbing now, and suddenly addressing someone behind me. “MY FATHER SHOULD DO IT INSTEAD! HE WORSHIPS THE DARK LORD ANYWAY!” he shouted, pointing at Lucius and then pulling up his left sleeve to expose his Dark Mark.

Everyone gasped—myself included—before I pointed my wand at Draco and shouted, _“Crucio!”_ Lucius leapt in front of his son and took the blow, as the boy jumped inside a Floo grate and disappeared.

“HALT! ALL OF YOU STOP!” shouted a frantic voice from behind me. The voice of whomever Draco had just addressed. Abandoning the battered elder Malfoy, I whirled around and found myself face-to-face with Cornelius Fudge. Several Aurors were behind him.

Wounded pride or not, I knew I needed to leave before the Minister began shutting down transport in and out of the buiding. I Disapparated without a second thought.

*   *   * 

To say that I was enraged was a gross understatement. Dumbledore had thwarted me again. Not only was he still alive, but one of my most loyal Death Eaters and his son had just betrayed me. How could I rectify this?

It turns out I didn’t have to. Fudge held Lucius at the Ministry for a hearing, after which the Wizengamot sentenced him to five years in Azkaban for his activities as a Death Eater. He would have received a longer sentence, had Fudge not seen that he truly had not wanted to kill Dumbledore, and also wanted to protect his son from the responsibilitiy. The man had looked remorseful beyond belief, in a way that he (supposedly) could not have faked. The Wizengamot must have pitied him ever so slightly.

I certainly had the power to break Lucius out of Azkaban if I so chose, but I did not. That would be his punishment from me: the knowledge that I could save him, but opted not to do so. (And I was especially glad that I had my own home now, as I would not have to stay at the Manor and deal with Narcissa’s crying fits.)

Seeing as Lucius would be out of the picture for the next few years, Narcissa was now my main point of contact with the outside world. She wasn’t thrilled—her fear of me (as well as Nagini) was no secret—but she had no choice. She was lucky to be alive, considering the actions of her husband and son. I informed her of her new responsibilities the day after the Ministry debacle: she was to continue sending me her copy of _The Daily Prophet_ each morning, along with all letters from Margo once the girl returned to Hogwarts. She would continue hosting Death Eater meetings like always, and allow me entrance to her home whenever I required it. And, of course, should Draco come home or otherwise contact her, she was to inform me immediately. Any shred of disloyalty would result in her death. I reminded her of my superb Legilimency skills as I warned her not to even _consider_ hiding news from me.

I didn’t actually plan on killing Narcissa, even if by some small chance she did attempt to conceal information from me; I simply wanted to scare her into obedience. She was still Margo’s guardian, and the girl appeared more competent and level-headed than all of the other Malfoys put together. The older she grew, the more I believed that she would make a satisfactory Death Eater one day. Redeeming the Malfoy family name would surely appeal to her—not that I gave a damn about their reputation, but the concept could motivate her to prove herself to me. If I were to kill Narcissa, someone else would have to finish raising Margo. And I certainly didn’t want to do it. Regardless of Margo’s exceptional maturity, I found the thought of raising children the fodder of nightmares.

*   *   *

Narcissa dutifully sent me all correspondence as I’d requested. The first owl-post delivery brought quite a shock: a lengthy _Daily Prophet_ article announcing my return and detailing the events of the Ministry battle. Dumbledore had submitted a statement within hours of returning to Hogwarts, and the writers had gobbled it all up.

“HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED RETURNS!” the front page read. I opened the paper and was greeted by a replica of my 1945 Hogwarts yearbook photo accompanying the article on the Ministry battle. _That_ I had not been expecting—but then again, this was Albus Dumbledore we were dealing with. He would do everything in his power to see me captured, and he likely believed that plastering my face all over the damn newspaper would make me easier to spot. As if I would be daft enough to go strolling around in public. I shook my head as I sat down on my living room couch to read the article.

~

 _Early Sunday evening, the Ministry of Magic unwittingly hosted a frightening battle between Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore and He Who Must Not Be Named, with several others fighting for either side. Dumbledore Apparated to the Atrium alongside Ministry employee Draco Malfoy, who had somehow found his way onto Hogwarts grounds and begged Dumbledore to save him from He Who Must Not Be Named—the tyrant had assigned Malfoy an impossible task for his initiation as a Death Eater: murder Dumbledore, or be murdered himself._

_Malfoy play-acted at fear over an impending disaster at the Ministry that only Dumbledore could prevent, while also exhibiting real signs of distress over his gruesome assignment. Dumbledore already knew of the plan, but did not disclose how. He also realized Malfoy’s desperation—he truly did not want to kill him or become a Death Eater. Recognizing Malfoy’s desire to escape You Know Who, he allowed his former student to take him to the Ministry with a few other professors. Dumbledore knew he could hold his own in the ambush that awaited him—which Malfoy thought would catch him by surprise. The young man was wrong._

_Immediately upon their arrival, seven masked Death Eaters attempted to incapacitate Dumbledore so Malfoy could murder him. Ministry employees in the Atrium rushed to Dumbledore’s aid and duelled the Death Eaters, until He Who Must Not Be Named arrived unexpectedly and killed a Ministry worker named Christopher Bentley. The fight mysteriously halted as he and Dumbledore fought a fierce battle of words._

_Though unmasked, no one knew who the murderer was until Dumbledore announced the man’s identity to everyone present. The Dark wizard appeared exactly as he’d looked as a Hogwarts student in the 1940’s, and claimed to be immortal. No one has confirmed the truth of this statement. Dumbledore addressed him by his legal name, Tom Riddle, before dueling him and his Death Eaters._

_The Minister arrived shortly thereafter. As soon as Draco Malfoy spotted Fudge, he burst into tears. He outed his father Lucius as a Death Eater and appeared to blame him for his predicament. He Who Must Not Be Named attempted to curse Draco, but his father jumped in front of his son to save him as the young man fled through a Floo grate. He has not been seen since._

_Aurors held the elder Malfoy at the Ministry for questioning, after which he was sentenced to five years in Azkaban. His sentence would have been much longer, had he not shielded his son and exhibited extreme remorse for his actions as a Death Eater._

_Given the return of He Who Must Not Be Named, Apparition in and out of the Ministry is now prohibited._

_We at_ The Daily Prophet  _bid everyone safety and vigilance during this difficult time._

~

I contemplated going after Draco. The boy knew he was marked for death after defying me, so he would likely be far away from home by this time. He may even have fled the country. I pondered different ways of finding the boy, until I realized that he was so pathetic, he wasn’t even worth the energy required to find him. And plus, he would be so terrified by this time, it would be punishment enough for him to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder to make sure I hadn’t discovered his hiding place. I never underestimated emotional torture. 

I revealed my thoughts to Narcissa—and everyone else—at the next Death Eater meeting, during which I spent a solid twenty minutes ranting about Lucius and Draco’s behavior. By the time I finished storming around the meeting room and sat back down, everyone looked thoroughly horrified. As they were supposed to.

“The best Lucius can do for me right now,” I drawled, “is give me his home to host our meetings...where he’s not even present! And that’s more than I can say for his son.”

Everyone jeered as I continued dragging the Malfoy name through the mud, less in amusement and more in relief that they weren’t the targets of my ire. This became a regular occurrence for the remainder of the summer, when I tired of the activity. Narcissa’s nerves were completely shot by the time Margo returned to Hogwarts. 

Margo wrote to Narcissa about once a week, sharing her fluctuating views on her broken family structure. The practical side of her understood that Lucius was only gone temporarily, and five years would pass very quickly in the overall scheme of things. His incarceration meant that Margo had a reprieve from her tense relationship with him. She was also relieved to be free of Draco’s immaturity, which, unlike his father’s imprisonment, was certainly a permanent arrangement. If Draco were to stay alive, he’d have to remain hidden forever; I would kill him if he ever returned home.

Margo accepted this. However, the wounded child within her was also fighting back tears because this was the second time a father figure had been removed from her life. Granted, a cousin’s five-year imprisonment was nothing compared to a father’s death by Dragon Pox, but the absence of her male guardian was forcing her to relive the trauma of her father’s untimely passing.

I couldn’t sympathize, given that I had happily murdered my worthless father for abandoning me, but I also wasn’t concerned about Margo’s emotional state. She had a better handle on her feelings than most adults, and she would surely be back to herself in a reasonable amount of time.

Early in the school year, she confessed to Narcissa that she was worried about her status at school. She feared that her peers might harass her for being related to an imprisoned Death Eater as well as the boy who tried to murder the Headmaster, especially given the tension already present as everyone grappled with the knowledge that I was alive. There was no more room for denial and speculation.

Fortunately, even in her troubled mindset, Margo could still hold her own: a few students did begin pestering her for her relatives’ behavior, so she hexed them severely enough to send them to Madam Pomfrey. Her peers stopped bothering her after that. 

It also helped that her friendships were solid. She thought she would lose a few cronies after Lucius and Draco’s antics, especially since there was no Slug Club to elevate her social standing anymore, but they all stood by her. Chicky, Sofia, and Sheena always sat with her during class and kept her company in the common room. Lulu was a good friend as well, but a terrible student—she was in danger of having to repeat her seventh year, having lost sight of her priorities. Margo was a bit sad for her, but also secretly happy at the prospect of being in school with her best friend for another year.

Margo also had plenty of other things on her mind to distract her from her family woes—she was now in her fifth year, which meant balancing her Prefect duties while studying for her OWLs. As the months passed, she had less and less time to consider her feelings about her relatives, and so threw herself into her studies.

She was almost of age as well. She had two and a half years left of her education, and then she would be a grown woman, and possibly a Death Eater. A Malfoy to take Draco’s place. And since Margo was vastly more mature and competent than her predecessors, she would likely prove a fantastic addition to my entourage. I decided to begin testing her character over winter break. 

*   *   * 

I invited myself over to Malfoy Manor for Christmas dinner. I hadn’t spent time there outside of Death Eater meetings since the summer, not wanting to experience Narcissa’s instability. However, she’d now had several months to acclimate and could surely handle my formidable presence in her home without needing Lucius for support. But, more importantly, it was time for me to seriously assess Margo.

Nagini and I arrived as Dobby was preparing the table. Narcissa greeted me with a forced smile and an attempt to hide her fear of my pet. It didn’t work.

“Merry Christmas, Narcissa!” I quipped as I stepped into the foyer. “It must be a _lovely_ season for you—how does it feel to be hosting Christmas dinner without Lucius and Draco?”

The woman shrunk back a few inches, trying to hide her rage. “It’s—certainly different, my Lord. We’ll make the best of it.”

I smirked at her back as she led us into the dining room. Margo was already seated, ever the proper young lady. She stood up and bowed slightly as I entered the room. 

“You’re growing up,” I praised. “This pleases me.” 

“Thank you, my Lord,” she replied politely.

I deliberately sat in Lucius’s chair at the head of the table, to further establish my dominance in the house. Narcissa said nothing, but I could tell from her body language that she knew exactly what I was doing. She was angry and scared out of her mind. And Nagini’s presence only exacerbated her turmoil.

I didn’t have much to say to Narcissa—just standard questions, asking her how she’d been getting on without Lucius and if she’d heard from Draco. I toyed with her emotions over these issues until the meal was almost over, when I turned to Margo. 

“How is Hogwarts, dear?” I asked, pretending I hadn’t been hearing all about her school adventures from Day One. She, like Draco, had no idea that I was reading all of her letters and would continue to do so until she graduated.

“I’ve been very busy, my Lord,” she answered without the slightest hint of fear. “I’m a Prefect now, and I spend almost all my free time studying or patrolling the halls. My friends and I don’t have much time for leisure.” 

“Is this difficult for you?” I wanted to assess her ability to perform under pressure—the girl would need it if she were to join my ranks in a few years. 

“It was at first, I must admit, but I’ve gotten used to it. I plan my schedule every week so I don’t forget anything or become overwhelmed. I’m determined to pass my OWLs with the highest scores I can.” 

“An admirable goal, young lady. I understand you’re grown close with a few Slytherin girls in your year, yes?”

“Yes, my Lord. A few older students as well.”

“I see. Tell me about your friends. What are they like?” _Could they also become Death Eaters one day?_  

“My best friend’s name is Lulu. She’s taking her NEWTs in June, but I think she might have to repeat the seventh year.” 

“Does she not care about her studies?” 

“I don’t think so. She’s a lot smarter than she lets on, but she’s very vain and more interested in popularity than homework. She thinks it’s cool to be, well, more than a bit irresponsible. She’s been getting more and more boy-crazy over the past two years and it’s—” 

“Ahh, a social butterfly. She must think very highly of herself.” 

“I think so. She definitely is studying, but I don’t think she understands the importance of passing her NEWTs.”

“I see. Assuming she repeats a year, do you think such humiliation would motivate her to change her ways?”

“Possibly. Would you like me to speak with her?”

 _What a perceptive girl. I’m impressed._ “Yes, I would. I despise the thought of any magical potential going to waste. I hope your other friends are more studious?”

“Oh, yes. We’ve been studying for OWLs together twice a week since October.”

“Very good. Tell me about these girls. Have they thought about what they’d like to do after completing their education?”

“Sofia wants to become a Healer because she’s fascinated by mental illness—she has manic depression, and she once knew an older boy with schizophrenia, who died after jumping off of his roof during an episode. She wants to understand how diseases of the brain work, and how they can be tempered, especially when the afflicted is magical.”

“Fascinating. Is she functional?” _Could I trust her to carry out my assignments without having a psychotic break, like Draco did? Then again, Draco wasn’t even mentally ill; he was just a cowardly little brat. No potions or pills can remedy such a condition._

“Yes, my Lord. She takes a mood stabilizing potion every morning. Some of us can still tell when she’s battling one extreme or the other, but she’s gotten a handle on it and she does very well in class. She behaves normally most of the time and gets high marks.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. What about the others?”

“Chicky and Sheena are very...bubbly. They’ve both talked about working at Zonko’s Joke Shop in Hogsmeade, or maybe opening their own store. I don’t think either of them are cut out for Ministry work. They take too much pleasure in playing pranks and testing limits. They like seeing how much they can scare people and avoid getting in trouble.”

_Testing limits. Scaring people. I need to pay attention to these two._

I thought for a moment, narrowing my eyes and stroking my chin while I pondered bringing Margo and her friends into the fold. They could prove most useful if trained properly. 

“And what are _your_ plans after you graduate?”

“I want to work at the Ministry. Lucius and I had started talking about it before he went to Azkaban.” Her face fell, but she quickly resumed the poise required while conversing with an authority figure. 

“This is good. I would definitely like to see you work there. I think you could do very well for yourself.” 

“Thank you, my Lord. I appreciate your confidence.”

“I have confidence in more than your potential as a professional, you know.”

“Wh—what do you mean?”

“Margo, I will initiate you as a Death Eater when you are of age. And possibly your friends as well.”

Narcissa dropped her fork.

Margo stared at me for a moment, caught completely off-guard. She didn’t know what to say. 

“Do you believe your friends have what it takes to join me?”

“I’m honestly not sure. We’ve never discussed it—”

“Well, do become sure over the next two years. I need to know if they are worth my attention or not.” 

“Of course, my Lord. I will.”

“Excellent. I will present this opportunity as something worth your while,” I continued. “I need not remind you that Narcissa here, as lovely as she is, is not Death Eater material. Her husband will be locked away in Azkaban for the next five years, and we will likely never hear from their son again. Now, I have observed your character since you were a little girl and I believe you to be the most competent of the Malfoy clan. I don’t often initiate girls, but you have demonstrated exceptional capability and level-headedness, even with all the trauma you have faced.

“Not only do I think you would make a satisfactory Death Eater, but I also believe that such an act would help restore honor to the Malfoy family name. I would make sure of that. That is something you would like to do, isn’t it? Help rebuild your family’s value to me? They would be so pleased.” 

Margo licked her lips as she pondered my proposition. It wasn’t really an offer, so much as a way of getting her to do my bidding while convincing her that she would be rewarded as well. I didn’t give a hoot about the Malfoy family name—they were all stereotypical rich Purebloods who did what I asked in hopes of currying favor with me—except for this girl. She may have frowned upon their haughty attitude, but she was still one of them and I could tell that she possessed a thirst to prove herself. She would definitely feel a thrill at being the reason I appeared to favor the Malfoys once more.

“I don’t expect you to decide right now,” I told her. “You are studying for significant exams, and you know the importance I place on the schooling of young witches and wizards. I will not interfere with your education, Margo, but I will tell you that I will require the service of new blood as the years pass; and given the colossal failure of young Draco, I expect that a more capable individual will take his place. You surely understand the importance of this arrangement.”  _You surely need to join my ranks, or there will be severe consequences._

“Yes, my Lord. I understand. When—when would you like me to—”

I waved my hand to silence her. “I will come and speak with you when the time is right. Don’t think about it too much in the meantime; you have OWLs to pass. Those are very important exams.” 

“Would my initiation be to kill Dumbledore?”

I laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You are not yet a Death Eater and are still too young to serve me properly. And either way, I hope your dear Headmaster will be dead long before you graduate. Don’t worry about your initiation; think more about developing the qualities I require in my ranks: loyalty, capability, cunning, and intelligence. All traits you appear to possess. Hone them. There is more to being a Death Eater than impressing me with your initiation. Challenge yourself in and out of the classroom. Find your limits and push them as far as you can. Become the most powerful witch you can be, and I wll reward you.” _By not killing you for defying me._  

Margo nodded, but said nothing further.

In the silence that followed, I collected my thoughts and looked around the room. Narcissa was deathly pale and trying unsuccessfully to project an image of calm composure. Nagini was coiled up next to my chair, shifting her body every so often but otherwise remaining quiet. Margo appeared deep in thought—she was definitely nervous, but looked more determined than scared. This was a good sign. Not that I expected anything less, since I’d never known the girl to crack under pressure. I was sure that when she was of age, she would make a fantastic Death Eater. And, who knew, maybe she could be the gateway into initiating a whole new generation of recruits, more spritely and quick-thinking than the older ones as they died off.

As disappointing as the Malfoy men had been, I saw a lot of promise in Margo. I couldn’t wait to see what she, and others in her generation, would bring to the table when I eventually recruited them. The thought made that evening a very Merry Christmas indeed.


	14. Alex | Summer 3 (2001)

Stand there with your ball and chain   
Bitch about what you've created   
Woke up in the masquerade   
You've already been paid and made it   
Don't pretend to know what it's like   
Feel the things that we must live through   
You only see with your dying eyes   
There's only one thing I will ask of you:   
Can you take this life, can you make it right   
Do you have the words to say to make it all go away   
You act so wise and so refined   
You can keep your lies ‘cause I'm never gonna go your way   
    
—Smile Empty Soul ~ “Your Way”

 

My family was in a daze as we exited King’s Cross Station. Given the exigent circumstances, we decided to stay at Grandma Rosie’s house for the first two weeks of summer, reading _The Daily Prophet_ each morning and digesting the news as best we could.

My mother felt the crushing loss of Dumbledore more than any of us. He had been her Transfiguration professor, and she had been so proud to have me attending Hogwarts with him as Headmaster. She wept loudly for hours every day, while my father and grandmother quietly held her. Morgan got the sniffles a few times—though I think that was more in response to our mother’s behavior than the demise of a man she’d never met. I tried to cry, but could not summon enough emotion to produce tears. Thankfully, no one seemed angry with me that, yet again, I felt nothing when everyone around me was sobbing. I stayed away from my family as often as possible.

I had mixed feelings about Dumbledore’s death. On one hand, I resented him intensely for his handling of my social problems during my first year; but on the other hand, he had quite literally saved my Hogwarts education by coming to my defense when I was eleven. I had developed a soft spot for him and couldn’t bring myself to wish him harm like I did most authority figures. Even after spending the last two weeks of the school year ruminating on these conflicting feelings, I still wasn’t able to name exactly how I felt. I remained somber and withdrawn as ever while my mother mourned her beloved professor. 

Morgan was still too young to understand the full scope of what was happening in our world, but my parents finally decided that I was old enough to read _The Daily Prophet_ by myself. They wordlessly passed me the paper after they’d finished reading it over breakfast, and I took it upstairs to peruse undisturbed.

The paper announced McGonagall’s promotion to Headmistress in Dumbledore’s place. She would continue teaching Transfiguration as well, which was no surprise. What _did_ surprise me was an article about a skirmish that had taken place at the Ministry of Magic two summers ago, after which Dumbledore had given a blistering statement of the events. The _Prophet_ re-published that article in this morning’s edition. My heart pounded in excitement as I began to read, relieved that no one would tell me I wasn’t mature enough to see the news.

The more I read, the more my head spun as I realized the gravity of the events in 1999: Dumbledore had attempted to rescue a nineteen-year-old named Draco Malfoy from his responsibilities as a prospective Death Eater.

_Dumbledore tried to rescue a Death Eater. What in the bloody hell?_

According to the article, Voldemort had instructed Draco to murder Dumbledore, or be murdered himself. Dumbledore knew the boy lacked the stomach to take a life, and so tried to protect him, even though he was no longer a student and had snuck into Hogwarts without an invitation. Dumbledore refused to share how Draco had done this, not wanting anyone to imitate him. Once inside the castle, Draco had pleaded with Dumbledore to save him—partly out of cowardice, and partly as a ruse to lure Dumbledore to the Ministry of Magic, where Draco worked and had stationed an army of Death Eaters to ambush the old man. Dumbledore somehow knew of this plan, but he and a few other professors went with Draco to the Ministry anyway; the Headmaster knew he could hold his own. 

An epic battle raged in the Atrium. The Minister of Magic himself dueled alongside Dumbledore and many Aurors as they attempted to incapacitate the Death Eaters and their fearsome leader, who appeared sometime later. Dumbledore noted that Voldemort looked incredibly young—though seventy-three years old, he appeared no older than his late teens or early twenties. The Dark wizard claimed to be immortal. The Headmaster was baffled by this, but never found out how the man had accomplished such a feat. He was more interested in defending himself.

Instead of killing Dumbledore during the fight, Draco had a psychotic break and ruined Voldemort’s plans. He outed his father, Lucius, as a Death Eater by pulling up his left sleeve and exposing his Dark Mark, the tattoo all Death Eaters bore. The older man was promptly carted off to Azkaban for a five-year sentence—much less than he otherwise would have served, had he not shielded his son from Voldemort’s Cruciatus curse and shown extreme remorse upon being apprehended. And then Draco fled. No one had heard from him since. 

_Why had no one told me?_  

I felt hot fury bubbling up inside my stomach as I read about the information my parents had kept from me. Why the fuck had they concealed this? This was monumental news that would quickly impact the structure of the British Wizarding world, if it wasn’t happening already.

I stormed downstairs, _Prophet_ in hand, and slammed it down on the coffee table in front of my moping parents. They jumped. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?!” I demanded. “Voldemort’s back and you think that’s something to—”

“Don’t say his name!” my father shouted.

“Whatever! Geez, don’t you think that’s something I should’ve known about when it happened?!”

“Alex, you were only eleven when this happened, and Morgan was eight,” my mother replied in an infuriatingly gentle tone, gesturing to the paper. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” I repeated.

“We didn’t want to scare you. We didn’t think you could handle it.”

“Are you serious?!” I squealed. “How are you always _so sure_ that I can’t handle things, when you won’t even give me a chance to prove that I can? Do you  _want_ me to be a fragile, scared little baby until _you_ decide that I finally deserve to be taken seriously? Come _on!!”_

“Alex, your Headmaster has been _murdered,_ and all you care about is our opinion of your maturity?!” 

“Why shouldn’t I care about that? You kept something huge from me just so you could feel in control!”

“What are you—” 

“Mum, stop babying me, or I’ll show you _exactly_ what I _can_ handle! _You’re_ the one who can’t handle anything!”

“Excuse me?!”

“You don’t _want_ me to be able to handle things because you’re too scared of letting go and letting me grow up! I’m thirteen, Mum; not three! Take off the kid gloves! This is insane!”

My parents shared a look of terror and confusion before my mother spoke again.

“What on Earth is that supposed to mean?” she asked shakily. Her lower lip trembled. 

“It means back off and let me breathe!” I growled, before stomping back upstairs and slamming the bedroom door as loudly as I could.

It actually meant that I had eavesdropped on their conversation the previous summer and I therefore knew why my mother was overprotective, but I wouldn’t tell my parents that. Not yet. Judging by their body language just before I’d stormed off, they were terrified that I knew the truth, but afraid to ask. I had them exactly where I wanted them.

*   *   * 

As smug as I felt after standing up to my parents, the fight wasn’t over. Voldemort’s rise resurfaced in conversation a few days later, and opened up a can of worms that I’d never seen coming.

After returning from a run around the neighborhood, finally able to claim at least _that_ much freedom, I found my parents and grandmother talking in the living room. I was surprised—my grandmother rarely socialized, even when we were in her house, so I knew the discussion must have been serious. 

“What’s going on?” I asked. “And where’s Morgan?” 

“We’re planning ahead in case we need to leave the country,” Grandma Rosie answered. “And your sister is upstairs. She’s too young for this conversation.”

“Why would we need to leave the country?”

“If You Know Who grows too powerful. We don’t see this happening—at least, not right this minute—but we want to be prepared in case something happens unexpectedly.” 

“What do you think would happen? And, I mean...I understand being concerned and watching what’s happening in the world, but he only just came back two years ago. Why do you think we’d have to leave now, all of sudden?”

A heavy silence abruptly filled the room. No one made eye contact with me.

My grandmother pressed her lips together before patting my mother’s knee. “You need to take over from here,” she sighed gravely. “This is not my news to tell.”

“What news? What’s going on?” 

“He—” My mother glanced at my father, as if requiring his permission to continue. Grandma Rosie hastily left the room and went upstairs.

“It’s okay, Renee,” my father murmured. “She’s old enough to know now.” 

“To know _what_ now?!” 

“He—You Know Who came back a long time ago.” 

“When?! What’s _a long time ago?_ How long ago?”

“In 1993.” 

“WHAT?! He’s been back since I was FIVE YEARS OLD and you’re only telling me this now that I’m THIRTEEN?! How fragile do you think I am?!”

“Alex, this isn’t about how much you can handle.  _I_ was scared! In case you’ve forgotten, I was born in this country and we have family here! I’ve been scared of You Know Who coming back since he first vanished! I _lived_ through his—his reign of terror! I  _grew up_ in constant fear! I don’t understand how you can turn this into some petty disagreement over your maturity, when _people’s lives_ are in danger. As I have to keep reminding you: not everything is about YOU, you know! You’re not the center of the universe!” 

My shoulders slumped and I folded my arms across my stomach.  _She just backed you into a corner. Shit. Fix this NOW._

“I—okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. What was it...like?” _Show interest. Express concern. Make her feel important._

“I never got to be a child,” she said quietly, trying to hold back another swell of tears. “You Know Who began rising to power when I was a teenager. I was at Hogwarts when we started hearing whispers of his influence. Then, people began disappearing. The professors assured everyone that we were safe at Hogwarts, but there were riots in the streets every other day, it seemed.”

“What were the riots about?” 

“Pureblood supremacists were fighting for their supposed _right_ to superiority. It was disgusting. I lost many friends over the issue—a few students tried to indoctrinate me just because I was a Pureblood, and some of my friends thought I was foolish to reject the offer. It was insane. I told them all to go to Hell. And I—I remember that pig, Bellatrix, the woman who murdered Dumbledore; I didn’t see her much, as she was older and in a different House, but I will never forget the brouhaha she started in my fourth year.”

“What did she do?”

“Oh, God, it was awful. I was leaving the Great Hall after dinner, and we all heard shouting in the corridor. Bellatrix was screaming at a classmate about how he should be lucky to be allowed to attend Hogwarts, since he was Muggleborn. This boy looked to be no more than twelve, and Bellatrix was—I swear, she was trying to kill him with her words alone. She kept saying things like, _‘You filthy Mudblood scum!’_ and _‘You shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe, much less attend Hogwarts! How did you even get in here, anyway? You must have manipulated the teachers into allowing you in!’_ This poor little boy was shaking and crying so hard, and Bellatrix felt nothing but contempt. I could never understand how someone could be so cruel! _I_ started crying. I wanted to comfort the boy, but I was afraid of Bellatrix. She was so _vile!_ I don’t know what the teachers said to her that day, but she never made a scene again. But I'm still not the least bit surprised that she became a Death Eater.”

“That’s horrible,” I said in a monotone. I wasn’t sure how to feel or react otherwise. 

“It was _beyond_ horrible. I was relieved that she didn’t know me, because who knows what she would have done if she’d known I was a Pureblood who didn’t believe in supremacy?” 

“Yeah, she...she sounds like an awful person. I’m sorry you saw that happen.” 

“Thank you. So am I. And I saw a lot; it wasn’t just one moment of her ranting and raving like a lunatic. Other students were fighting over the issue as well, and there was always a Breaking News headline in the _Prophet_...every single day. We never got a break. There was always one catastrophe after the next.”

_Sounds like how I feel every day that I’m at home with you guys. God, you don’t even know how lucky you are not to know what goes on inside my head._

“Wow. How did you manage to study and learn with so much stress?”

_How do_ I _manage to study and learn with so much stress?! Good grief._  

“There was—I saw _some_ hope. There were people advocating for punishment against Pureblood supremacists. Others were fighting for Squibs’ rights. The Minister was passionate about maintaining order, but there was only so much she could do. Everyone was restless. As I got older, I became so fearful that I contemplated dropping out of school. I didn’t feel safe—we weren’t out rioting in the streets, but my friends and I stopped going to Hogsmeade because violence kept erupting everywhere, even in that quaint little village that barely even sustains one robbery a year. Everyone was so tense...our biggest concerns should have been passing our exams, not fearing for our lives! A-and now it’s happening ag-gain and with Dumbledore dead, I don’t know how—”

She dissolved into another weeping fit. 

“She didn’t want to tell you because she wanted to shield you from the pain she experienced as a child,” my father finished for her, rubbing her back slowly. “I’m sorry you were offended and thought we were babying you, but this has nothing to do with your maturity. Mum just wanted to give you girls a proper childhood. She didn’t have one.”

I gingerly made my way over to the couch and sat down next to my parents. I had so many questions, but had no idea where to begin.

“How was it when you graduated from Hogwarts?” I finally asked.

“It grew scarier every year, Alex. I felt some measure of protection under Dumbledore’s authority at school, but he couldn’t do much for us when we were no longer students.” She patted the couch. “I—I sat right here, day after day before I moved out, hoping to find a job somewhere away from the chaos outside, but of course I couldn’t. No corner of this country remained untouched. Even when I finally got a job writing at Witch Weekly, it was never easy. I hoped that writing about frivolous topics would distract me from what was going on outside, but I could never forget. Merlin, I was so naïve....”

“I can only imagine.”

“Don’t. That was the whole point of our keeping you girls in the dark as long as possible.”

She continued talking about her years as a young adult, answering my questions and reminiscing about the few happy moments she’d experienced at Hogwarts. She’d been in the same year as Lucius Malfoy, the now-incarcerated Death Eater, and had swooned over him for a few years until he’d begun espousing the same bigoted views that had started the whole conflict. By that time, she felt grateful that he never knew she existed.

She sniffled a bit more as she talked about the friends and coworkers who’d disappeared, or discovered dead family members who had tried to oppose Voldemort. Given the spectacle of Bellatrix’s breaking into Hogwarts this year, and the widespread fear inside the Slytherin common room, I found it easy to picture my mother’s terror as a young girl.

And then came her account of 1981.

Voldemort was tightening his grip on Britain, murdering those in opposition left and right. Most of my mother’s friends and relatives were killed for this reason. She was now spending all her free time at home, leaving work as early as possible and practicing advanced charms to repel home invaders, should they come. No one did, but she still had trouble sleeping at night—until she vacationed in America for a week during the spring, with one of her only remaining friends. She was ecstatic to finally have amassed enough money to escape the never-ending nightmare in England for a little while. Her friend had also grown up with minimal funds; so the vacation was especially meaningful to both of them.

One night, the two young ladies were strolling through a park when a male voice caught their attention by calling out, “Hello, girls!” It was my father’s best friend, and he called the pretty foreigners over for some flirting.

It turned out to be more than flirting for my mother and father, who quickly realized that they were developing a romantic connection.

My parents had told Morgan and me this story before—they’d proudly shared their account of a fairytale whirlwind romance lasting under a year before they married. They’d owled each other every day after my mother and her friend had returned to England, their letters becoming more affectionate and serious over time, before my father visited my mother a few months later and proposed. Morgan and I had loved the story, often asking them to retell it, after which we’d teased them in a singsong voice about them “sitting in a tree,” among various other childish taunts. 

But that wasn’t what had actually happened. 

Yes, they’d met while my mother was on vacation, and they’d begun flirting when my father’s best friend had gotten their attention. Yes, they’d written each other love letters for three months before my father visited her again. But he had not proposed with flowers or candles or any other romantic gestures. There had been nothing romantic about it. 

Inside my mother’s tiny flat, she’d broken down and confessed her desire to leave England. She feared for her safety, and doubted that Voldemort would be defeated before he’d killed half the British magical population. She had no one, and knew not where she could flee, but she felt trapped in England. And her own mother wasn’t offering much support. Grandma Rosie barely seemed to notice what was going on; she barely left the house and offered no opinions one way or another. She’d long since retired and had enough of a pension—as well as funds from her late husband—to remain a hermit undisturbed. The two women were fighting daily, as my grandmother insisted on visiting her all the time to check on her “progress” in making her own way.

Notwithstanding her mother’s controlling nature, she needed to escape her current life. She told my father that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d even smiled, apart from her vacation in America, and asked if he wouldn’t mind housing her for a little while. _Maybe just until this blows over,_ she said. She wasn’t planning on making the change permanent unless Voldemort’s reign became permanent. Though she was afraid of imposing on my father, she saw no other option.

But then my father blurted out, “How about we get married?”

And that was that. 

She was lucky that Witch Weekly had opened a few locations in America and set her up for a transfer. After packing up everything she owned, she booked a one-way flight to the States and never looked back. Grandma Rosie had staged a colossal, hideous fight the night before my mother left, trying to guilt-trip her into staying, but she failed and had to accept that her baby was leaving the nest. My mother cried all the way to the airport, and throughout the majority of her flight; my parents’ reunion wasn’t even the least bit joyful. It was filled with tears, guilt, regret, and fear over whether they were truly making the right decision. 

Grandma Rosie eventually calmed down, but the tension between the two women never dissipated. 

The infant Harry Potter defeated Voldemort not two months later, and my mother broke down again—in both relief and shame. Of course she was happy that Voldemort was gone—for the time being, at least—but she also wondered if she’d acted rashly by abandoning her mother and fleeing the country. 

But she couldn’t go back. She’d begun building a life in America. She had a job. She was living with the man she loved. She had safety and security the likes of which she’d never before experienced. She and my father had set a wedding date and reserved the venue. And it wasn’t like she was regretting his proposal—she just felt like a coward for leaving her mother behind when such rashness hadn’t even been necessary. I suspected that a part of her still felt guilty, all these years later.

And so I finally knew the real story: _they’d made their life together in America to shield themselves from Voldemort._ My parents certainly loved each other, but they hadn’t embarked on an adorable whirlwind romance like they’d told us initially; they’d acted out of self-preservation and fear. Rather like me in everyday life.

Perhaps I inherited that mindset from them.

“We wanted to raise our children away from danger,” my father added quietly, as I absorbed the emotional bombshell. “We knew Hogwarts was safe, especially with Dumbledore as Headmaster, but we still were hesitant to let you and Morgan study here because we weren’t sure how bad it would get. He—”

“If it gets to a point where we don’t feel it’s safe for you girls anymore, we’ll transfer you to Ilvermorny, so there’s no need to worry,” my mother insisted. “We won’t force you to stay in England if you’re too scared.” 

“I—I’m not scared, Mum. And I love Hogwarts. I agree that it’s very safe there.” 

My mother’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not even the least bit concerned? After everything I just told you?”

“I—I dunno, I just...I don’t know how to feel.”

My mother looked like she’d just been slapped.

“I’m sorry! I thought you’d be relieved that I wasn’t...losing my nerve! I’m not trying to offend you or anything.” 

“I think you should go spend time with your sister now,” my father ordered. “I’m sure she could use some company.”

I obliged without another word. I had no more energy. 

*   *   * 

My family was still tense as ever by the time we returned to America—with Morgan blissfully unaware of the reason we even lived there—but my parents appeared to have resigned themselves to giving me the space I needed. My mother considered bringing me to another mental health Healer after my reaction to Dumbledore’s death, and in response to her anguish over Voldemort’s return, but my father talked her out of it. Despite my occasional outbursts, they had to admit that I was highly self-sufficient. I was not the delicate little waif they needed me to be.

Everyone tiptoed around me that summer, trying to figure out how to strike a balance between respecting my harsh boundaries while still being responsible parents. Despite their efforts, they were still relatively clueless about how to handle my fiercely independent nature. 

This frustrated me. I had endured severe trauma for years, but I was still at the top of my class and delved into any activity I enjoyed with more enthusiasm than most kids displayed. I possessed a ferocious resilience, and an unquenchable appetite for knowledge and creative expression. That was hardly a reason for my parents to complain. What other proof did they need of my success? 

Given my love of drawing, my parents enrolled me in an intensive summer art program for magical teens that spanned from early July until mid-August. I spent five hours in the studio every day during the week, and then another two or so at home to complete assignments. I loved it.

My parents encouraged me to express my negative emotions through my art so that I might be happier. (I suspected that it was also to get me out of the house.) But, of course, once they saw what form that expression took, they backtracked. 

My drawings and paintings were exceptionally morbid. My favorite themes were blood, skeletons, fire, and destruction. Sharp, jagged edges. Dizzying spirals. Angry snakes and spiders. Animated bursts of black, red, and silver. In other words: me in a nutshell. 

To her credit, the art teacher tried to soothe my parents by telling them that my artistic signatures were simply outlets. I found this quite touching, as she was the first person on Earth to ever perceive my behavior as normal. Her validation lifted my spirits considerably, and my behavior followed suit: I interacted positively with the other students when we did group work, I never antagonized anyone, and I completed all assignments efficiently. I didn’t stand out, I didn’t make waves, and I didn’t make enemies. It was a startling yet refreshing experience. 

The teacher told my parents that most teenagers were angst-ridden, and my morbid artwork was likely just a phase. My parents weren’t convinced. Knowing my history, they correctly suspected that there was more to my artwork than stereotypical teenage moodiness, and they wanted to know what was really brewing under the surface. They pressured the teacher into asking me in their place, knowing that I would shut down if they confronted me directly. 

“Are you feeling all right, Alex?” she asked one evening as class was ending.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Gerson, thank you,” I replied politely as I packed up my portfolio. “Why do you ask?” 

“Well, your paintings _are_ quite gruesome, you know. I’m sure your parents have told you that they’re concerned about what you’re trying to express through such violent images.”

I sighed. “Yes, ma’am, I know. Like you told them a few weeks ago, it’s just an outlet. I’ve always found dark subjects fascinating. I would never actually hurt someone unless they tried to hurt me first. I swear.”

“You don’t have to swear to me, honey. I’m not angry with you. You can tell me if something is bothering you. I know the teenage years are tough—especially for us magical folk. You’re still learning to control your powers and it’s only natural to feel unstable at times.”

I smiled wanly, not accustomed to such warmth from an authority figure. “So...you’ve seen this type of work from other students?”

“Oh, yes. I must say that most children’s creations aren’t quite as morbid as yours; but as long as you know not to act violently, I don’t see any cause for concern.”

“Thank you, I’m really glad you see that. And yeah, I have too much to lose. I would never endanger my freedom like that. I just have...a lot to deal with, and it helps to draw and paint creepy things; that’s all. Is that—weird?” 

“I’m an artist, Alex,” she laughed. “Almost all artists are tortured souls. You’re fine.” 

“I wish someone would tell my parents that. I always get anxious when I show my parents my artwork, because they have such a strong aversion to it; they act like it’s a warning of something I’m about to do. They don’t realize that I actually understand the difference between fantasy and reality. It’s super frustrating. And then they act like—like I’m punishing them by drawing things that scare them. It’s just like when I express myself verbally: they dismiss me because they don’t like what I have to say. They see an expression of my heart and soul on canvas and they’re repulsed, so it feels like they’re repulsed by _me_. It stings. I feel like I’m...I dunno, I just wish they didn’t cringe and make nasty comments when they see what I’m creating. Sometimes I want them to pay attention to me, but in a good way—like when I draw something I’m really proud of—but they give me so much extra attention over everything else, and it's always negative attention, and I just want to lock myself in my room and hide. I don’t even want to show them my work anymore, but they keep asking to see everything because they’re scared and....” 

I had never blabbed so much to a virtual stranger before. I stopped myself before revealing something that could come back to bite me later.

Mrs. Gerson put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “All teens fight with their parents over self-expression. It’s normal. As soon as she turned seventeen, my daughter bewitched her hair to make it bright blue. My husband yelled at her until she put it right again.” 

I laughed. A lot harder than I thought I would.

“I’ll talk to your parents again, if you’d like. I don’t want you to feel stifled when you create art. Art is meant to heal the soul, not punish it.”

“Thank you. I’d really appreciate that.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good night!” she called after me as I stepped into the fireplace to Floo home.

*   *   * 

The month of July passed in an uncommonly quiet haze. My family had fallen into a routine: eating breakfast, seeing me leave for art class and my father leave for work, and eating dinner after I came home. Morgan remained as quiet and well-mannered as ever, playing alone in her room while my mother cleaned the house, and later accompanying her on errands. I think the atmosphere of our home had also settled because I spent most of my time away from everyone. It was an arrangement that benefitted us all. 

I began to believe that we could actually find some version of homeostasis until I walked in on my parents having an intense discussion one evening. I had just stepped out of the fireplace with my art portfolio, and the first word I heard was _divorce._  

“Are you separating?” I asked them.

“No, no,” my mother replied quickly. We were—we’d been considering it for the past year, but we were actually just talking about resolving everything when you came in.” 

“We’re staying together, Alex. You don’t have to worry,” my father added. 

“O—kay?” I replied, not knowing what else to say. “Sorry, this is just awkward. I didn’t expect to hear this.”

“It’s all right. That’s understandable. How was class?” my mother asked.

“What have you been fighting about this past year?” I countered, ignoring her question. I wouldn’t let her change the subject. 

My parents glanced at each other, hesitating to be truthful and daring each other to speak first.

“Guys, come on,” I groaned. “Tell it to me straight. I’m not a baby anymore.” 

My father pressed his lips together before responding, “There were underlying issues, but on the surface—we were...we were fighting about you.”

“Excuse me?” 

“We were—” 

“Are you blaming me for your problems?!”  _Because that's what it sounded like when I heard you talking last summer! Have you the courage to say it to my face?_

“No!” my mother exclaimed. “No, that’s not—it wasn’t like that at all. We just—” 

“We weren’t sure what to do because your behavior has been—well, a bit dramatic, and it took a lot of energy to focus on you, and Mum—I mean, Mum and I didn’t have a lot of energy left for each other.” 

“Well, I’ll tell ya what!” I drawled. “Focus on each other, and don’t pay too much attention to me at all. Just like I’ve been begging you to do for years. Everyone will be happier!” 

I stomped off to my room before they could respond. They knew I was right.

*   *   * 

Our Diagon Alley shopping trip was different this year. Instead of purchasing school supplies only for me, we were also buying for Morgan. She was thrilled. I was happy as well—it was wonderful to not be the center of attention the entire time. While my parents fussed over my little sister, I quietly stepped back and observed what everyone else was doing as we moved from store to store. I always found it easier to be a bystander than an active participant in social situations, and so I relished the rare moment of peace. For this brief moment, a heavy weight lifted off my chest. 

I took advantage of my parents’ inattention when we arrived at Flourish and Blotts. I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but I just couldn’t help myself—as soon as my parents began to help Morgan locate her textbooks, I stole off to the area marked _The Dark Arts_ and plucked a book off the shelf. It was called _An Encyclopedia of Dark Wizards and their Crimes._ After glancing around to make sure my parents couldn’t see me, I crept further into my little nook and shielded myself as best I could.

I was four pages in when a loud voice startled me.

“OH MY GOD, _WHY_ IS SHE OVER THERE!?” shouted my father from across the store.

I slammed the book back on the bookcase as he stormed over to me.

“ALEXANDRA! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” he yelled, paying no mind to all the people in the vicinity who were suddenly staring at us. (But _I_ was the socially inept person in my family. _I_ was the one who made scenes in public.) 

“I—I was just looking—”

“We’ve already told you not to look at Dark magic books! Why are you even interested in this stuff?” 

“Dad, I was just curious—” 

“Do you know how many witches and wizards have gone bad because they were _just curious_ about this stuff?! You Know Who! Grindelwald! Death Eaters! You know who _they_ are, right?! Like that horrible woman Bellatrix Lestrange who  _killed your Headmaster_ a few months ago! Don’t you taint your sister’s first trip to Diagon Alley, Alex! This is a big deal for her! It’s not just about you, and we can’t keep breathing down your neck when your sister needs attention!” 

“I don’t _want_ you to breathe down my neck! I love when you pay more attention to Morgan! What the hell?”

“Stop swearing! And for Merlin’s sake, _stop_ looking at Dark magic books! Take your curiosity somewhere else! Now get away from there.” 

I sighed loudly as I followed my father back to the academic area and moodily collected all my textbooks for the year. No one spoke to me until after we’d arrived back at Grandma Rosie’s house. 

Once we were settled, everyone mozied into the living room as Morgan picked up one of her new textbooks and Grandma Rosie left to do some shopping. I made to walk upstairs and begin leafing through my new books, but my father’s voice stopped me. 

“You’re not going anywhere, young lady,” he scolded.

“What did I do _now?”_

“Lose the attitude and sit down,” my mother ordered.

Setting my cauldron on the floor, I loudly flumped onto a chair and waited for my parents to speak. 

“Alex, you are nearly fourteen. We cannot keep an eye on you every second when we go out.”

“Mum, I don’t WANT you to keep an eye on me every second! Don’t you get it? The whole reason I WANT to run off is because you’re smothering me! I would kill for you to give Morgan all the attention you give me!”

“Morgan doesn’t _need_ as much attention as you because she behaves herself!”

“So you think smothering me will turn me into the perfect child?!”

“We’re not smothering you! How dare you speak to us like that! If we didn’t give a damn about how your behavior impacted your life, we would just ignore you! We pay extra attention to you because you _need_ it! You’re not mature enough to be—” 

I snapped. I wasn’t swallowing this condescending bullshit anymore. 

Shooting to my feet, I kicked my cauldron so hard that my parents jumped. I made a mental note to fix any damage I’d done to the books once I’d returned to Hogwarts, hating when books were anything less than pristine, but this moment was more important. It was time for me to take a stand.

 “I know _you_ don’t believe that,” I leered at my father. I marched over to the couch to face my parents and placed my hands on my hips, staring them down.

“What are you talking about?” he shot back. “Listen to your mother. I agree with her!” 

“That’s not what you said last summer when you were threatening to leave her BECAUSE SHE WOULDN’T STOP OBSESSING OVER ME!” I growled, loudly enough to scratch my throat.

“You—you lis—” 

“Yeah, I heard that. I heard the whooole thing. _Ohh, we haven’t made love in years because you’re so obsessed with making Alex like this or like that_ and _Ohh, you heard that woman Melissa....”_ I drawled, deepening my voice to mimic his.

“How  _dare_ you listen in on a private conversation!” my mother cried. 

“How dare YOU smother me, and hold me back, and make me responsible for your happiness!” I shouted as I balled my hands into fists. “How dare you breathe down my fucking neck and treat me like a late bloomer just so you can get off on feeling needed! Dad was right! You have no idea how to be happy without making someone else responsible for it! You’re weak and cowardly and fucking pathetic!” 

“Don’t you DARE use that language with me! I will—” 

“I’ll use whatever language I FUCKING want after having my childhood stolen from me! Admit it, Mum: you only started backing off this past year because you didn’t want Dad to leave you! You did it to keep him around, not because you actually trusted me to take care of myself without you doing all the work _for_ me!! You don’t trust me because you don’t WANT to trust me! You WANT me helpless so you can feel like your miserable fucking life actually has a purpose! You want me broken so you can take credit for fixing me because _you’re too chickenshit to fix yourself!”_  

I was shaking and screaming at the top of my lungs. Sweat beaded on my forehead and under my arms as my body flushed with rage. I wondered if I would catch fire—if so, I would direct the flames outward and burn the house to the ground. 

My parents were too stunned to even respond. I normally would have laughed, had I shocked them into silence by ranting and raving any other time, but I was too full of righteous indignation to be amused. I had a lot to say. And I couldn’t stop. This wound had been festering in caged silence for too long, and it was now begging to be released. 

“You think I’m not old enough to understand what’s going on?” I demanded, with angry tears flooding down my cheeks. “You think I’m just some loudmouth baby who never grew up? No, bitch! And I don’t care about your fucking privacy when I hear my name and want to know what’s being discussed! I was SOBBING when I heard the way you talked about me—using filthy words like _incapable_ and _delayed_ and _difficult_ and _sensitive_ and _not old enough to be left alone_ and whatever the fuck else it was!

“And THAT’S why Morgan was in my room that night! THAT’S why she was crying! And so was I, but you didn’t seem to care much about that! Only when perfect little Princess Morgan is upset, then it’s suddenly okay for me to be upset, too! She came out of her room to go to the bathroom and saw me sobbing outside your bedroom! She felt bad for me, and she was scared that you were divorcing! She fucking covered for me because even  _she_ knew that what you were doing was wrong! And you only believed the lie because SHE said it, too! Because she’s your fucking favorite! Morgan can do NO wrong! And I can do no right! So even if we say the same thing, you’ll only believe it if she says it with me! And look, I’m crying again now, because of you; but only YOU get to be the victims, even though I’M the one being hurt! All I’ve ever done is fight back; I don’t start _anything_ in this family, but you act like I’m the villain and you’re all so fucking perfect, while you tear me down and call me names because your abuse upsets me! 

“And then you wonder why I don’t give a shit about other people’s feelings?! Well, guess what: I don’t fucking care about anyone else, and I’m sick of pretending I do! There’s no reward! There’s nothing in it for me! I hate you all! You stupid, weak, scaredycat IDIOTS—” 

“What the DEVIL is going on here?!” shouted Grandma Rosie, bursting through the front door with a bag of groceries. 

No one spoke for a moment.

“Do you two not know how to control your child?!” she spat.

More silence.

My grandmother waved her wand to send her purchases where they belonged, before marching over to the scene. 

“I expected more from you, Renee!” she scolded. “After everything she’s done, you’re just going to let her stand there and throw a tantrum like a five-year-old? You can’t keep her in line, can you! Maybe it’s just as well, since I could never control you, either!”

“Rosie, stop yelling at her!” my father protested. “And you don’t _control_ your child like—like you’re putting them under the Imperius Curse! That’s ridiculous! Alex has never spoken to us like this before—”

“And she never will again, or it’ll be a swift smack on the rump! Not in my house, Shawn! Not in my house! And Renee, maybe I should smack you, too, since you’re clearly incapable of handling your own child! Grow a spine and stop feeling sorry for yourself!”

_Whoa. She sounded just like Mum. That was creepy._  

My mother cringed at the insult and tears sprang to her eyes. “That’s a horrible thing to say! How dare you judge the way I raise my children! You have no idea what it’s like dealing with Alex’s outbursts on a regular basis!” 

“Well then, maybe you should hold up Morgan as an example, since she’s always such a delight! You’re obviously doing something right with _that_ one, so why don’t you just—” 

“Where is Morgan, anyway?” my father asked, his eyes darting around as he realized my sister had disappeared.

“Morgan?” my mother called as she began searching the house.

No answer. 

“It’s all right, honey, no one’s going to hurt you,” said my father. 

“Alex, don’t just stand there!” my mother scolded. “Help us find your sister!”

With a heavy sigh, I rolled my eyes and began wandering aimlessly about the house, pretending to look for Morgan.

We searched the entire house several times, and there was no sign of my sister. My grandmother grew tired from the stress of the fight and running around the house, so she retired to her bedroom and instructed the rest of us to continue searching. 

After scouring the property yielded no results, we began knocking on the neighbors’ doors. My parents wondered if my sister had run away, and they were starting to panic. An hour of more frantic searching and asking around caused my mother to nearly collapse in tears. My father put his arm around his sobbing wife and led us all back inside. I crept upstairs and began pacing, wondering what to do until I heard a strangled crying sound coming from upstairs. 

Upstairs. I _was_ upstairs. There were no rooms above me. What could possibly be—

_Oh my god._

“Morgan?” I called out. 

“Have you found her??” gasped my mother as she and my father bounded up the stairs. 

“I—I don’t know, I just heard—” I looked up to the ceiling, not sure of exactly _what_ I had heard. 

“Merlin’s beard,” my father sighed as he walked down the hall and unlatched the entrance to the attic. We all followed and climbed up the ladder.

And there was Morgan, huddled in a corner next to a stepstool that she’d obviously climbed and brought with her to cover her tracks. Her cheeks were red and her eyes were swollen from crying. She jumped at the sight of us.

“Sweetheart, how did you get up here?” my mother asked, inching toward her shaking mini-me. 

“You were all yelling again and I got scared. A-and—and then when...when Alex started screaming about me, I thought I would be in t-trouble as well, because I lied about Alex having a nightmare when I was in her room last summer, so I came up here to h-hide....” She dissolved into tears once more. 

My parents shot me an icy glare as they enveloped my sister in a comforting hug. I was left to stand in the corner awkwardly, waiting for them to finish calming down their perfect little baby. I knew I wouldn’t have been welcome even if I’d tried to join them in making Morgan feel better. She likely would have screamed, and then our parents would have yelled at me again. Because everything was always _my_ fault.

I slipped down the ladder, barely making a sound as my feet hit the floor. I was back in my bedroom long before the family even noticed my absence. Behind the safety of the closed door, I began hitting my pillow as hard as I could until my arms gave out and I collapsed. 

How come they could call me out when I did something wrong, but I couldn’t call them out for what they’d done to me? Why was I always the one who had to fix everything? And why did Morgan have to be so fucking perfect that our parents could pretty much forget she was there when they decided to scold me again? Why couldn’t they heap all their attention on her and forget  _I_ was there? It would be interesting to see how my sister would react to being suffocated by obsessive parents who didn’t trust her to do anything right.

_I’d love to see how perfect she’d be then,_ I thought as adrenaline boosted my strength. I shot out of bed and began pacing angrily. 

And why had Grandma Rosie screamed at my mother like she was an incompetent child—the way my mother clearly saw me? The way she cowered under her mother’s insult...it almost felt like I was watching a fight between my mother and me, as older people.

_This must be where it comes from. Maybe, in some way, this isn’t even about me. This is my mom copying her mom because she doesn’t know any better._

The realization nearly brought me to my knees. I clutched my stomach and began breathing in short bursts, unable to slow my racing heart. 

I knew my parents had had horrible childhoods themselves—I flashed back to all the stories of abuse, from which they’d supposedly healed so as not to repeat their parents’ mistakes. But they  _were_ repeating those mistakes. Because they _hadn’t_ healed. They were incompetent parents because their parents had been, as well, and they’d never figured out how to fix themselves. And at this point, they likely never would. 

My parents had been slapped, whipped, and threatened as children. They had grown up watching their parents’ toxic marriages dissolve before their eyes. As a teen, my father had once wrestled a knife out of his mother’s hand as she was preparing to stab her failure of a husband. He often fell asleep to the sound of his parents’ screaming matches.

My mother had been born by accident to irresponsible, mentally ill parents—old enough to be her grandparents—who'd had no friends and no concept of etiquette. Her mother had picked fights with strangers in public, and hovered uncomfortably whenever my mother had brought friends to the house. This had frightened the other children. My mother hadn’t had much of a social life because of this. She’d had no one to lean on when her parents told her that she was the only reason they stayed together—and she certainly hadn’t had any support when she was fifteen and her father had died of Dragon Pox. All people told her was, “You have to take care of your mother now.” And we all knew how _that_ turned out.

Unfortunately, my parents were unable to do much better than their parents, because no one had talked about mental health when they were kids. The subject was taboo. They had tried to conquer their traumas by burying them instead of confronting them, but those demons resurfaced the moment I was born. And Morgan had only turned out better because she’d never been subjected to their scrutiny. Perhaps my parents viewed her as their second chance to be good parents, seeing me as a hopeless case with no chance of redemption.

Since I had spent my whole life being isolated, I could observe social dynamics from a detached perspective and see that which others couldn’t. As such, I realized that my parents had turned out exactly like their own parents: wounded, scared, and narrow-minded. They feared that which was different because they couldn’t control it. They—especially my mother—craved control over their environment (and their children) so that they could feel an illusion of power that their own parents had stripped away from them. This wound prevented them from seeing outside their miniscule comfort zones and being able to love me unconditionally.

My parents didn’t love me. They didn’t know how. 

Their affection for me was contingent upon my ability to stroke their egos. Their rejection was not malicious, however; it was borne of their repressed trauma. Sadly, no matter how hard I tried to fit into their box of approval, I would never succeed because I was nothing like them. Unless I completely buried my personality for every moment I spent with my parents, the tension in our home would never go away—well, their tension may evaporate, but I would never be happy because I would never be able to express myself authentically. And I would die before living the rest of my life like that. 

I wasn’t the only fucked up person in this house; we were all broken. My parents had broken me, and their parents had broken them. It was a vicious cycle that had likely been rolling for generations.

But I would not remain broken. My parents may not know how to heal, but I would figure it out. And I wouldn’t depend on anyone else to meet my needs. I would discover how to fix myself, by myself. I had no idea how long that would take, or what would happen to me along the way, but I would let nothing stop me from reaching my full potential. Even if that meant I had to cut ties with my entire family. 

Despite my newfound insight into my family’s psychology, I hated that a part of me still craved their acceptance. I supposed it was only natural for a child, no matter their age, but I still wanted to separate myself from the herd and feel superior. Stronger. Exceptional.

I was exceptional in my own right already—I was immensely creative, academically gifted, and logical to the point that I could shut down my emotions in almost any situation to make the right decision. I was more disciplined and insightful than most kids my age. I knew my strengths, and I knew what needed improvement. I had my work cut out for me. 

Writing everything down would help me see everything more clearly as well. I made to rummage in my cauldron for a piece of parchment, when I realized that my cauldron was currently tipped over on the living room rug, with my supplies strewn all over the floor. And I wasn’t ready to confront my relatives yet. 

Speaking of my relatives, I suddenly heard them padding down the hall. My stomach clenched. Were they about to come in? Would I be punished? Would my parents hit me? Would Morgan lose her shit all over again? 

“I don’t want to go in there right now,” said Morgan in a pathetically sad voice from right outside the door.

_It’s just as well. I don’t want you in here, either._  

I held my breath as everyone’s footfalls died down, only exhaling when I was certain that they were downstairs.

I knew I would have to rejoin them at some point. I couldn’t hide up here forever. And I couldn’t pretend that my explosion hadn’t happened, as much as I wanted to. Though my parents had started it, I knew I would have to finish it, as always. But I didn’t _want_ to finish it. I didn’t feel like sauntering downstairs with a façade of guilt on my face; I felt like spitting venom. I resolved to stay in my room until I’d calmed down enough to put on a convincing performance. 

*   *   *

The performance worked as well as expected. I made all the right apologies, bowed my head in “shame” as my parents ran their mouths over how horribly I’d behaved, and promised not to act that way ever again. My parents made me clean up the mess from my cauldron—which I’d planned on doing anyway, because _Hey! Look at me being responsible!_ —and then I trudged back upstairs after being denied dinner yet again. Not that I cared. I couldn’t find it in me to be hungry. 

The tension hovered in the air for the remainder of the week. Grandma Rosie spent most of her time reading in her bedroom, Morgan played by herself in a corner of the living room while my parents read books on the couch, and I studied my new textbooks upstairs. My parents wordlessly passed me _The Daily Prophet_ every morning after reading it—virtually all the contact I had with them.

Until three days after the fight.

As we all ate our eggs, my mother silently read the paper until her gasp startled us.

“What is it?” Morgan asked.

“The world’s going mad,” she breathed as my father gingerly pried the paper from her hands.

“Oh, Merlin,” he groaned. “I think You Know Who is behind this.” 

“Behind what? What happened?” 

He sighed heavily before answering me. “Severus Snape is dead.”

“What?? When? What happened?”

“His body was found just outside Hogsmeade last night. And he—oh, for God’s sake....” He pinched the bridge of his nose and slammed the paper down on the table.

“What?” I pressed on.

“He was found with his—his left sleeve was raised, and he had the Dark Mark. He was a Death Eater.”

“Was he really!” I exclaimed, with more curiosity than fear.

“What’s what that cheerful tone?” my mother demanded. “Are you _happy_ about this?”

“Whoaaa. Calm down, Mum. Do I _look_ happy?” I put on a scared face so she would see that I felt attacked.

“You should be upset. We talked about this! Death Eaters are criminals of the highest order. Assassins! And _this one was working at Hogwarts!_ Does that not bother you in the slightest?!”

I didn’t know what to say. I stared blankly. 

“What in the world is wrong with you,” she muttered as she virtually threw the newspaper at me. “There. Appease your morbid curiosity all you want.”

I tore through the remainder of my breakfast and took the paper upstairs.

After closing the bedroom door, I flopped onto my bed and began to read. Professor Snape’s death had certainly been dramatic—there were bloody slashmarks on his face and body, and his face was contorted into a frozen mask of horror and rage. Civilians had found him shortly before midnight and began screaming for Aurors to remove the corpse. Especially given his visible Dark Mark.

There had been rumors surrounding Snape’s conflicting loyalties, but I’d never felt unsafe around him. Maybe that was my Pureblood Slytherin privilege talking, or maybe I was simply too drawn to the darkness to care if a Death Eater had been teaching me.

Had Voldemort killed Snape? Had one of his henchmen done it for him? Or had the man simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time? His bodily injuries indicated something personal, so Voldemort probably had had something to do with the crime.

Since the infamous Dark wizard was clearly gaining power, what would that mean for the rest of us? Would he infiltrate the Ministry? Would he plant more Death Eaters at Hogwarts? Only time would tell. And I’d be sure to protect myself no matter what.


	15. Tom | 2000

You poor sweet innocent thing  
Dry your eyes and testify  
You know you live to break me  
Don't deny sweet sacrifice 

—Evanescence ~ “Sweet Sacrifice”

 

As the fugitive Malfoy had failed at killing Dumbledore, I needed someone else to do it. Perhaps it would be one of my current Death Eaters, or a new recruit. Or maybe I would do it myself. Vengeance would be sweet—but the old man would be much more aggressive toward me than someone he perceived as his ally. If I could plant another Death Eater at Hogwarts alongside Snape, or successfully lure the man to the Ministry once more for a better-executed attack, maybe I would finally succeed in killing him.

Eliminating the Order of the Phoenix would also make Dumbledore more vulnerable. Though the Headmaster would be difficult to kill either way, I could possibly infiltrate his forces by recruiting more Death Eaters as double agents to break down the organization bit by bit. I began discussing strategies with my followers over the first few months of the year, and we came up with several possibilities. Snape was immensely helpful in feeding me intelligence.

Remus Lupin and Sirius Black were growing more paranoid by the day—Snape told me that they were now not even allowing Order members into Headquarters without first accosting them with several questions to which only they knew the answers. 

Hermione Granger had also joined the Order after graduating from Hogwarts, and was making quite a bit of noise in that venture—especially at the Ministry. She’d begun working as a secretary in the Auror Office immediately after graduating, giving her even more of a soapbox to preach to those who opposed me. 

Though witty and capable, she apparently had a habit of bursting into tears during inopportune moments because she still missed her dead friends so much. She didn’t disrupt the flow of Order meetings, but Snape told me that she came close to it on numerous occasions. I decided right then that if her never-ending grief didn’t make her shrivel up and die, then my wand would. She really was nauseating. 

Like me, the Order was recruiting and strategizing new ways to neutralize various potential upsets. Several Hogwarts graduates were joining because they wanted to follow in Hermione’s footsteps. Neville and Luna, in particular, were quite vocal in joining their friend to avenge Harry Potter’s death. The pair had finally gotten together after finishing Hogwarts, bonding over a shared love of obscure magical creatures and a desire to right the “wrongs” of my Death Eaters. The couple had begun working for a Magizoologist, in the hopes of joining the field themselves when they were older— _if_ they ever grew older. I would enjoy destroying them if they one day grew too meddlesome. And, if they had a child, it would almost feel like a reenactment of Halloween 1981—except this time, I would actually succeed in killing the entire family and leaving the house unscathed. I found this thought quite humorous, especially given that I’d initially wondered if Neville had been the boy mentioned in Trelawney’s prophecy. Having been born the day before Harry Potter, he clearly didn’t realize how narrowly he’d escaped death as a baby—the phrase “born as the seventh month dies” was not exactly a clear direction. Then again, prophecy had never been a cut-and-dry discipline.

Neville would have made quite a strange Chosen One. From what I’d heard in Draco’s letters, the boy had been slow to develop. He’d appeared to be one of the dimmest pupils in his year until Hermione had formed Dumbledore’s Army when they were younger. She must have given him some private lessons to help raise his grades and improve his skills, but he still didn’t seem to have much use outside of bravery and a desire to protect his friends. He probably felt that joining the Order was his life’s work. 

Had Neville been the boy the prophecy had fated me to kill, the task would have been ridiculously simple. As Bellatrix and the others had tortured the Longbottoms into madness via the Cruciatus Curse, they were permanently resigned to a life at St. Mungo’s, likely not even aware of their son’s existence. Neville’s cold, crotchety old grandmother had raised him, and would certainly have died before her charge if I had burst into their home. Though she must have loved Neville in her own way, I doubted that she’d loved him enough to have sacrificed herself for him, the way Lily Potter had sacrificed herself for Harry.

Thanks to the tip I received about Harry’s birth, Neville and his dear granny had escaped my wand. For now, at least. The old woman was declining, and Neville was now grown and living with his wife. He certainly knew the threat I currently posed, but I doubted he knew exactly how lucky he’d been as a child. The word “luck” didn’t seem to be a common staple in the young man’s vocabulary. 

He and his comrades were currently trying to locate Death Eaters and their sympathizers in their day-to-day lives. The Aurors among them worked extra hard to catch Dark witches and wizards, while remaining even more vigilant at the Ministry. 

Though the Order members were loud about their disgust for me and mine, they were also fighting a more quiet war behind the scenes: trying to convince people to join them, or at least spread the word of the organization’s importance. They were determined to help people overcome their prejudices against Muggleborns and Halfbloods in order to make them see the error of their ways and lose faith in—or fear of—me. Surely, if more people realized how silly it was to hate someone for their blood status, my support would slowly crumble and I’d be left with nothing! Everyone would be thinking critically, which would lead to my loss of followers and sympathizers. Of _course_ that would work. Because everyone was jumping onboard to confront their insecurities, open their minds, and improve their moral fiber. I’d _never_ witnessed anything different; constructive criticism was _always_ welcomed! Sheep who believed everything the media told them were _so unbelievably_ rare! (My Death Eaters and I had quite a laugh about this during several meetings—even though the joke was partly on them, since I didn’t actually give a hoot about blood status. My soldiers were my pawns as much as everyone else in Britain.)

Snape gave me all these juicy details, and fed the Order all that I’d instructed him to share about our activities. Some of this gossip was true and some of it wasn’t; but that was the whole point. His double-agent behavior was meant to solidify the Order’s trust in him while throwing them off the scent. I doubted their numbers were as large as mine, but they were still doing everything possible to prevent me from gaining more power. In their naïveté, they fancied themselves valiant warriors saving the world from the greatest threat it had ever faced! 

One day, I would show everyone exactly how wrong they were. I would bring the Order to its knees. 

There would surely be a battle soon. I didn’t anticipate a full-fledged war—at least not for a while—but I assumed the next few years would bring skirmishes in and out of the Ministry. We needed to be prepared. I resumed teaching my followers the Dark Arts, as I had done before nearly dying in 1981, in addition to holding regular meetings. The Montecores were the youngest in the ranks and, though less experienced, they were both brilliant and learned quickly. I gave them private lessons twice a month on the side, in order to help them catch up to their older peers. They began to show noticeable progress after a few months.

Our more subtle work came in assessing the strength of the Ministry. The Death Eaters who worked there began paying more attention to their coworkers to evaluate their personalities and prejudices. We needed to find out exactly which employees could be persuaded to join me, which ones were ambivalent, and which ones would pose a threat. I began recording lists of names and having my followers cozy up to these people to assess them in greater detail. This venture brought me a few new Death Eaters during the winter, including two of Yaxley’s coworkers named Thorfinn Rowle and Pius Thicknesse. Once Yaxley had discovered their prejudices against Muggleborns and their desire for power and glory, he convinced them to join me. Their most important role would be to put pressure on Fudge and other high-ranking Ministry officials to alter current rules regarding blood status.

Rowle and Thicknesse began dining with Fudge a couple of times a month, slowly grooming him to examine ways he could alter the Wizarding world’s power structure. It seemed to be working—Fudge now required any prospective Ministry worker to share their blood status during their job interviews, which would be confirmed or denied through a background check. This tactic allowed us to not only size up the Pureblood population, but also determine the citizenry’s views on blood status. Some people who’d initially wanted to work for the Ministry changed their minds upon being asked about their heritage, leaving the building in a fit of rage.

One potential recruit who remained uncooperative was Horace Slughorn. Though he definitely favored Purebloods, he claimed not to be Death Eater material. Yes, he had resigned from his teaching post, but I wondered if it might not be safer to keep him closeby so I could monitor his activities and assess his threat level. After he turned down my followers’ numerous offers of glory and rewards for choosing the right side of history, I wrote to him myself. This thoroughly terrified him. A week passed before I finally received his response, which could best be summarized as: _Thank you for your interest, but I prefer to keep to myself and not to take sides in matters of politics. I will stay out of your way._

After reading such a plea for self-preservation, I realized he would not be a threat to my power. It was interesting to me that Dumbledore and I, opposing forces, had both tried and failed to convince Slughorn to pick a side in order to defeat the other, and the man wanted no part of it. Typical background Slytherin. If he left me alone, I would leave him alone. I had more important concerns.

*   *   * 

Margo and her fellow fifth-years were now busy preparing for their OWLs. She wrote home less frequently during this time, as she had little energy outside of her studies, but the letters she did send painted the picture of a studious young lady who valued her marks highly and would likely receive admirable scores on her exams. She studied with Sheena, Chicky, and Sofia twice a week, during which time they quizzed each other and recited all the necessary facts and dates. They also encouraged one another to study harder when one of them wanted to give up and throw a textbook at the wall.

Lulu, on the other hand, was in danger of having to repeat her seventh year. Margo wrote that her best friend had built quite a reputation for her boy-obsessed nature, and she hardly ever saw the older girl in the library these days. She was often spotted in Hogsmeade with a date, or gallivanting about the halls of Hogwarts with various boys hanging on her every word—and article of clothing. She’d lost a few points from Slytherin for snogging in the hallways, but didn’t care. 

Margo wondered if Lulu even thought that her actions would carry consequences. Since birth, the older girl had been immersed in a bubble of privilege and wealth, protected from falling flat on her face. Which she would likely do if her parents ever stopped enabling her. I pondered asking the Gilmores about their daughter during a Death Eater meeting to see if they would be honest with me, but I decided to wait until the school year was over.

Predictably, Lulu failed all her NEWTs. Margo thought the girl was more embarrassed by her parents’ subsequent Howler than her behavior itself. The Gilmores had positively reamed their daughter for her academic performance, their voices echoing off the walls of the Great Hall as their Howler berated her for abandoning her studies in favor of her reputation. They warned her that severe consequences would be waiting for her once she returned home, and her repeated seventh year would not be pleasant: they would be demanding weekly updates on her homework, details about what she was learning in class, and what scores she was achieving on her exams. And more Howlers would follow if she did not comply. 

Margo had lightly rubbed her friend’s arm to comfort her after the Howler ripped to pieces, unable to do much else. And, according to her letters to Narcissa, she privately agreed with the Gilmores’ punishment; she was clearly maturing a lot faster than her best friend. She said nothing to the older girl about her near-perfect OWL scores, and only shared them with Narcissa in her last letter before returning home for the summer. And given everything the girl had endured recently, I was pleased.

*   *   * 

Margo may have been coping with her familial losses reasonably well, but Narcissa was not. The woman lacked the distraction of a bustling school environment during the academic year—before Margo returned home for the summer, her only housemate had been her bloody house elf. And she wasn’t about to engage _him_ in conversation beyond giving him orders; that low, she would not stoop. 

She had a social life, certainly, as an upper-class Pureblood socialite, but such interactions could only take up so much of her time. And she was determined to make her parties take up as much time as possible. She hosted gatherings seemingly every week, throwing herself into planning each event down to the smallest detail, to avoid being alone with her thoughts. It was hard not to laugh at her as I saw all of this in her mind during Death Eater meetings—one would think the woman would have brushed up on her Occlumency skills after all this time spent in my presence. Apparently not. 

Since Narcissa could neither host nor attend parties at all hours, she turned to her sister for comfort during moments of quiet. Bellatrix and Rodolphus began spending most evenings with the grieving Narcissa, indulging her in her ruminations over tea. Though Bellatrix felt bad for her sister, she and Rodolphus could not offer much support. Their marriage was much more turbulent than the Malfoys’, and they had chosen to remain childless. (Bellatrix hadn’t cared about procreation one way or the other, but Rodolphus despised small children and possessed no paternal instincts to speak of—hence his abandonment of his illegitimate offspring years earlier. Granted, he’d felt torn when the fully-grown Mimevas had written to him, but engaging with an adult was also quite different from dealing with a screaming toddler. I could hardly blame Rodolphus.)

Bellatrix was also angrier with Draco than she was sympathetic toward Narcissa. Her loyalty was to me above anyone else, and she didn’t care who knew it. She tried to reason with Narcissa, reminding her sister that she and Lucius were lucky to be alive, given Draco’s betrayal, but all that did was upset the blonde further. Narcissa was torn between venting to her sister when she needed to blow off steam, and screaming in the woman’s face over her insensitivity. As far as Bellatrix was concerned, Draco was dead. She despised her nephew and couldn’t empathize with Narcissa’s grief.

Margo made herself scarce that summer. She took her meals with Narcissa, and dutifully attended all of the woman’s parties, but spent the rest of her time on her own. She was rarely at the Manor during Death Eater meetings—as a matter of fact, she was rarely at the Manor at all. She stayed with her friends when she had no outside social obligations, and disappeared the second Rodolphus and Bellatrix visited for tea. She’d apparently had the misfortune of getting stuck in the parlor during one of these visits, and witnessed Narcissa and Bellatrix screaming at each other for a solid fifteen minutes over their conflicting feelings about Draco. Though Margo was much more confident now, she still couldn’t stand witnessing her relatives fighting, and attempted to sneak out during the shouting match. Unfortunately, Rodolphus had stopped her from moving more than ten paces. 

“If I have to sit here and listen to this, then so do you!” he’d snapped at her. She never made that mistake again. 

For the remainder of the summer, she all but ran into the Floo grate the second she heard the Lestranges burst through the front door of the Manor.

Narcissa finally sobered to an acceptable degree as the summer waned. Her relationship with her sister leveled out as well, as she begrudgingly began to accept that her son was not coming back. Bellatrix reminded her that she still had Margo to raise, and Lucius would be out of Azkaban sooner rather than later. That knowledge did seem to strengthen Narcissa’s resolve. She was still subdued, and everyone could tell that her grieving process was far from over, but at least her company—and her thoughts—were no longer quite as aggravating as they had been before. 

*   *   * 

I wondered how the elder Malfoy was handling Azkaban—both his imprisonment, and the knowledge that I had rescued his comrades but would not be saving him. He should have considered himself lucky that such was his only punishment from me, considering Draco’s transgressions. 

As I entertained the thought of Malfoy’s mind slowly deteriorating under the influence of the Dementors, I imagined being able to see inside the man’s cell without actually going there.

And that got me thinking: were there magical processes I could tap into in order to view people who were far away? If I wanted to observe a dreary place like Azkaban, could I set up some kind of portal to see inside, from the comfort of my own home? 

The only magical discipline which discussed seeing outside one’s current position was Divination. I had scoffed at the subject before hearing the prophecy about Harry Potter and myself, and had since found it fascinating—not enough to practice it, but I enjoyed reading about it on occasion. And now I wondered if I should be doing just that. I did possess a handful of books on the subject, anyway. 

As I strode into my library, I smirked at its sheer size. As I often did. The novelty of having endless knowledge at my fingertips still hadn’t worn off—not that that was a bad thing. Had I known, while a fractured soul trapped inside my diary, that I would one day possess a majestic home with a library this size, my time spent idle would have been much more tolerable. At least the decades-long turmoil was over now.

The turmoil was over, and I had a job to do. There was no sense in ruminating. Upon arriving at the proper location, I plucked a book off the shelf and began to read.

Most of the text was useless to me—chapters on reading tea leaves, seeing the future, palmistry, and other irrelevant topics. I didn’t feel drawn to any particular passage until I arrived at the chapter on crystal gazing. The first page showed a picture of a sorceress touching a crystal ball, which depicted a unicorn standing in a forest. The text discussed the various types of crystal balls, methods for viewing particular objects or hearing prophecies, and techniques employed by Seers over the last several centuries. Though interesting, it wasn’t the subject matter itself that gave me the idea; it was the image on the chapter’s first page. It was the scene inside the crystal ball. I flipped back to that page as I wondered how an image could even materialize inside the sphere in the first place.

What if I could create an enchanted sphere of my own, which could show me anything I wished to see? With an object like that, I could become even more powerful than I was already. Surely, the greatest sorcerer in the world could figure out how to solve this puzzle.

And solve it I would. This would be my biggest project since learning to make Horcruxes. And I didn’t care if it took all year.

After a few hours of research, I decided to begin with an ordinary crystal ball. I did not possess one, so I instructed my house elves to procure one for me. They snuck into Diagon Alley late one night and took one from a shop often visited by Seers. I doubted anyone would even notice its absence, as the store had boasted at least thirty in stock that night. 

Before I could begin repurposing the object, I needed to investigate it thoroughly to discover all of its capabilities and processes. I couldn’t just start inventing spells left and right without knowing how they would interact with the ball—and the last thing I needed was an accident that harmed me or Nagini. Over the next several weeks, I brought the crystal ball to each room in my house while I studied it. The Divination book had said that crystal gazing often worked better or worse in various rooms, based on the energy present, so I wanted to be sure that I’d be working under optimal conditions. I did a fair amount of reading on crystal gazing during this time, as that practice would be a reference point for testing the object’s limits and functionality after I’d altered it.

It bothered me that crystal balls were quite small, so I cast Engorgio and the ball grew to eight times its initial size. I could now see much clearer images inside this larger globe. 

This repurposed object appeared to function best in my lair behind the library, so I decided to keep it there. Even though the chamber was hidden well enough, I desired an extra precaution for my crystal ball: I wanted to enchant it further so that no one would ever find it even if they somehow broke into my lair. It would materialize out of thin air on my command, with a spell I would invent to summon it. I imagined it solidifying over a large obsidian table I had taken from Riddle House, and so I moved it there permanently. It now hovered over the table’s surface. I hadn’t yet figured out how to make it disappear and reappear, so I simply kept it in place above the table while I worked on it.

I figured that the spell I’d invent would have to be some new type of double-ended Vanishing charm, in a sense, with one charm to banish the globe and another to bring it back. As no such charm had been invented, it took me a while to find the exact incantations and wand movements to achieve my goal. The task was enormously difficult. At one point, the entire thing shattered all over the floor. And because it was an enchanted object, simply waving my wand to restore the pieces didn’t work. I had to invent a few additional spells to put the orb back together and prevent it from breaking again. Only after I’d attempted to break it on purpose to test the shield charm, and it remained intact, was I finally satisfied.

But I wasn’t out of the woods yet; I still hadn’t figured out how to make the globe disappear and reappear. I continued working on this project for the next two months. During this time, I experimented with transforming the ball from glass crystal to other materials which might Vanish more easily. I discovered, after much painstaking trial and error, that I didn’t need to change the material that was already there; I simply had to add a film of enchanted quicksilver on top of the crystal. It looked like unicorn blood. The orb now glistened in the firelight—quite a pleasant image to behold.

I eventually manipulated the quicksilver so that it could Vanish the globe and make it reappear. I also altered the globe’s magical properties so that it contracted and became part of the obsidian table once I “closed” it, and appeared to slowly sprout from thin air like a fast-growing plant when I summoned it. I “brought it back” through tapping the table three times with my wand. And when I’d brought the globe up from the table, the silver film disappeared at my touch to reveal the crystal underneath. The process was seamless. 

The final and most important task was to find a way to command images to appear inside the globe. Through warping some crystal-gazing techniques and creating yet even more spells, I finally achieved my goal at the end of July.  

The globe was now fully functional. And I was infinitely more powerful because of it. I nearly staggered backward as adrenaline pumped through my veins; my enemies wouldn’t stand a chance now. There was no stopping my momentum.

*   *   *

I spent the rest of the summer inventing and investigating the limits of countless spells in my underground chamber. When I wasn’t conducting Death Eater meetings, I was either watching the Ministry in the globe, stretching the boundaries of existing spells, or creating new ones. The practice was invigorating.

One charm I’d always wanted to expand upon was the Summoning charm. What were its limits in object size, object type, and distance? Could I also reverse the spell, and send objects back from whence they came? I hoped to increase all of those parameters, whether by altering the required wand movements or adding to the existing incantation. Experimenting with this spell proved quite enjoyable—excluding all the times objects broke or disintegrated in transit, because I was working outside the spell’s limits. That frustrated me to no end. Sometimes I could repair the objects and sometimes I couldn’t; so I decided to only work with small, replaceable objects until I’d perfected my technique.

And then, quite by accident, I discovered that my all-seeing globe possessed a quality I’d never even imagined: it allowed me to Summon objects from a much longer distance. I realized this after repairing a book I had summoned from a random house outside Diagon Alley, which had fluttered into my chamber all ripped to shreds. After fixing it, I wondered if I should try the same spell again, but with a slightly different wand movement, and maybe another book would arrive in one piece. Absentmindedly resting my left hand on the globe, I Summoned another book from the same house and it arrived in mint condition. I repeated the process with the next house, and then the next, and then the next. And then I skipped houses, and then neighborhoods.

And then countries.

I suddenly had a huge pile of books on the floor, some of which were from Spain.

I considered sending the books back to their original homes, as I hadn’t yet figured out how to reverse the complex Summoning charms I had created—but by this time, I didn’t even know where half those books had come from. I decided to keep them; I could always use more reading material. And foreign languages really were quite interesting. 

While furthering my research into Summoning international objects, I decided that I would finally try to reverse the spell. I started off small, with things like spoons and napkins, and the process finally worked after several hours of experimentation. I also discovered the globe’s one limitation: I could only return small objects I’d Summoned from England. I didn’t think I’d ever need to Summon and then return an object from, say, Germany or North America, but I’d needed to find out if I could all the same.

The only other disappointment came in discovering that I could not Summon anything from the Ministry of Magic. I could send something there via the globe, like a piece of parchment, but the institution’s protective enchantments were too strong for me to take anything from the premises. I tried not to let this aggravate me too much; it was a small snag in an otherwise brilliant discovery. 

More brilliant discoveries soon followed: catching traitors in my ranks. No one knew I had the globe, so their defenses were down when they thought I couldn’t see or hear them. One by one, I began watching all of my Death Eaters, both at work and at home. I made a show of parading traitors before the group during meetings—after having them imprisoned in the Malfoys’ enchanted dungeon basement for weeks, of course. The torture and murder of a traitor became a fixture of Death Eater meetings, and the loyal ones weren’t even fazed by the process after a while.

Pretty soon, it wasn’t just traitors I was seeking: I began searching for ordinary citizens who spoke out against me. These people worked in every avenue of Wizarding society, from the Ministry to the unassuming shops in Diagon Alley. Some joined the Order of the Phoenix, while others simply raised their voices in solidarity. I kept a list of dissenting voices next to the globe, where I also took notes on the troublemakers’ activities. Every so often, I sent a few Death Eaters to kidnap someone who was growing a bit too loud in their opposition to me, after which I tortured and killed them during meetings. It was great fun.

One Ministry worker I watched closely was Hermione Granger. She was, for now, still a secretary in the Auror office, working for two high-ranking Aurors named Geraldine Aballo and Gurv Crouch, the latter of whom was a relative of the late Bartemius. I knew Hermione wanted to make more of an impact eventually, but she seemed content with her current station. And a mere novice in the professional world couldn’t do much. She was safe for the time being; I would deal with her at the appropriate hour.

*   *   *

As evidenced by her letters from Hogwarts, Margo still had mixed feelings about Draco’s betrayal. On one hand, she was devastated because he was family and she did care for him, as annoying as he was. She confided in Narcissa (and me, unknowingly) that she would love to know where he was and what he was doing; part of her wanted to see him to make sure he was all right, even if he forbade her from disclosing his location to anyone else. On the other hand, Margo was beginning to understand the importance of her role as a prospective Death Eater. She valued loyalty, and realized that cowardly traitors like Draco may not deserve the title of “family” after all. She gradually began discussing him less and less in her letters, in favor of her studies and her friends.

Her feelings on Lucius’s incarceration weren’t quite as difficult to handle; partly because the situation was temporary, and partly because she knew he deserved to be punished for aiding his son in defying me. She was relieved that his punishment would only last a few years—and that I was keeping him alive. She was well aware that, had Lucius not served me so well up until this past summer, I would have killed him the second I caught him attempting to shield Draco at the Ministry. She was grateful for that small mercy, and confessed to Narcissa that the knowledge helped soothe her grief ever so slightly. Though I rolled my eyes upon reading about all of her mushy feelings, I was pleased that she at least understood her priorities. 

Unfortunately, her goal of banishing drama from her life wasn’t quite over, as evidenced by an angry letter she sent home in late September. 

In between classes one morning, she was telling Sofia about Narcissa’s latest missive, in which the woman had praised her ability to compartmentalize her grief instead of allowing it to interfere with her studies. A few feet away was a girl who had taunted Margo about her relatives’ fall from grace the year before. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asked in a haughty tone.

“I beg your pardon?” Margo challenged. 

“Last I heard, there’s a cell in Azkaban with your name on it. You’re right next to Lucius. At least you’ll be able to talk, you know...Malfoy to Malfoy? You’re all a bunch of dirty criminals!” 

Margo lunged forward and shoved the girl hard.

“I don’t even know your bloody name!” she shouted. “Tell me who you are, and I’ll punish you for _your_ family’s misdeeds! And I’ll do much more than _talk!_ You have the nerve to insult me just because my cousin is—” 

“What’s in a name, dear Margo? You may call me...the future Auror who will lock you up one day! I don’t trust you or any of the slimy Slytherins that come out of Malfoy Land. You all support You Know Who and you’re going to try and ruin everyone else! You step on anyone in your way, just to get ahead. You _disgust_ me! Go back into your festering snake hole, where you belong!”

 _“You’re_ the filthy slime that needs to stay away from _us!”_ Margo shouted. 

“Yeah, we don’t want you to make us sick!” Sofia chimed in. 

And then came a slap that sent the aggressor staggering backward, nearly toppling her over. But the blow hadn’t come from Margo.

It was Lulu.

“Don’t you DARE speak to my best friend like that!” Lulu shrieked, having appeared from out of nowhere. “If you come near her EVER AGAIN, I will put you in the bloody hospital for a MONTH! Now SCRAM!”

The girl scrammed, Margo and her friends stormed off to class, and I chuckled as I read Margo’s account of the incident a few days later—replete with dialogue and _very_ colorful descriptions of her feelings during the altercation.

The Malfoy girl certainly _had_ found her voice. And some fiercely loyal friends as well. I imagined Lulu, in that moment, being proud of having to repeat a year, just so she could say that she’d slapped someone on Margo’s behalf.

*   *   * 

Margo wasn’t judging Lulu for having to repeat her seventh year. If anything, she was happy to have her best friend at school with her for a little longer. As much as she loathed to admit it, she confessed to needing the support of her friends to cope with Draco’s betrayal and Lucius’s incarceration.

Margo continued her Prefect duties as well. Having received outstanding marks on her OWLs, she felt she has earned a bit more time to relax during her sixth year. She used her free time to socialize—outside of Malfoy Manor, she was becoming quite the extrovert! I found this surprising, given her behavior as a young child, but it didn’t bother me. I wasn’t too interested in any of this fluffy nonsense anyway; I was more concerned with what Margo and her friends would do once they finished Hogwarts. Would they make acceptable Death Eaters? Would any of them join the Order? I doubted the latter, but I could never be too careful. I had discovered too many traitors in our midst to blindly trust anyone.

Speaking of traitors, my most spectacular torture session of the year came with the execution of the Carrow siblings. Alecto had been loyal from the beginning, but Amycus was an absolute failure and had somehow managed to drag his sister down with him. They attended meetings with everyone else; and yet they performed abysmally during Dark Arts lessons and on their assigned tasks. I suspected that they were burning out, but I wasn’t ready to make a final decision just yet—perhaps they simply needed a proverbial kick in the arse to keep them on the correct path. Along that vein, I began sending them on precarious operations designed to set them up to fail, wondering if they would be killed in action or if they would rise to the task. 

In early October, they narrowly escaped their attempt at kidnapping a lower-level Order member to torture him for information—the man was much more powerful than he’d let on, and the Carrows were forced to retreat. It was only after I watched them in the globe, tripping over themselves as they stumbled into Alecto’s house, did I realize that their loyalties had shifted. 

~

_“I can’t keep doing this,” Amycus groaned. “We were barely strong enough to Apparate after that nonsense. I can’t believe what a gifted duelist that bastard was! I don’t want to do this anymore.”_

_Alecto sighed. “I know. Part of me is wondering if the Dark Lord is sending us on suicide missions. Our assignments seem so much harder than everyone else’s! How can he talk about loyalty when he doesn’t even try to hide his disdain for us anymore? It’s ridiculous. He’s such a hypocrite.”_

_“I agree. He’s ruthless. I can’t keep up. I’m getting too old for this, anyway. If he wants to share his secret of becoming immortal and regaining a young, strong body, then maybe I’ll reconsider; but I doubt he’d ever reveal his methods. He thinks he’s so bloody special.”_

_“But how do we get out? This isn’t a profession. We can’t just mozy on up to him and say, ‘Hello, my Lord, I present my letter of resignation! This is my two-weeks’ notice!’ I don’t know if he—”_

_“Maybe we can hide out somewhere? He’s not perfect; he can’t find us anywhere just because he thinks he’s God. Surely, we can outsmart him if we get creative enough? With a Fidelius Charm—”_

~

I didn’t need to hear the rest of the conversation. In that moment, I knew I had to kill them. 

*   *   * 

The Carrows had the gall to act as devoted as ever when I summoned everyone for the next meeting. I now wanted to kill them twice over, just for that. 

 _“He thinks he’s God,”_ Alecto had said. 

_Not technically; but close enough. And don’t you dare act like I haven’t earned that._

I conducted the meeting as if nothing had gone wrong. We heard the Ministry workers’ news, Snape’s latest intelligence from the Order, and updates on potential new recruits we were looking at. I played ignorant until the very end, dragging out the Carrows’ undeniable nervousness. I wanted them to think they’d gotten away with their betrayal for as long as possible. They sat perfectly still, with their hearts pounding in anticipation of being able to leave the meeting room untouched, and then fleeing to only Merlin knew where. I even allowed them to rise with all the others, who began quietly filing out of the room after my dismisal. 

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” I called out silkily, pretending I hadn’t been thinking about this moment for the past hour. “Amycus and Alecto, please stay behind.” 

The siblings shared a nervous glance before standing. “Yes, my Lord?” asked the brother. There was a slight quiver in his voice. 

I smiled warmly to make them think I was about to bestow a reward instead of a death sentence. Their reactions were priceless—their facial expressions were mixture of a pretense at loyalty, barely-veiled anticipation, and extreme fear. It was glorious. I held them in this state for a long moment before speaking again.

“It has come to my attention that the two of you have been arranging some special plans,” I continued.

“W-what sort of plans, my Lord?” asked Alecto. I could almost feel her heart hammering. If only the organ would just burst on its own, splattering blood all over its owner and giving me a delectable visual from ten feet away.

I leaned back in my chair and slowly withdrew my wand, further dragging out the tension before finally showing my true emotions. My expression hardened instantly.

“Plans that excluded everyone else in this room. Plans that, were they carried out, would imply that _you actually believe you can relinquish your obligations to me!”_

“M-my, Lord,” Alecto stammered. “I promise we—”

 _“Crucio!”_  

The woman shrieked and fell to the floor, banging her knee on her chair on the way down. She screamed louder upon impact and wept openly, mouth agape as tears and spit and snot covered her reddened face. Clearly, she was as outraged at being caught as she was in pain from the curse. She appeared an overgrown toddler throwing a tantrum—a disgusting sight. All the more reason to execute her, just to shut her up.

“One move and you die!” I shouted at Amycus, who had taken a few steps toward his distressed sister. As had a few remaining Death Eaters who had frozen in place when I’d begun taunting the Carrows. Even though I had formally ended the meeting, they were all now too afraid to move.

Returning my attention to Alecto, I cast the Cruciatus curse several more times, until her piercing screams became hoarse, animalistic cries as her voice left her. Her brother was shaking where he stood, trying not to cry. 

It was only after ten rounds of the curse that I lowered my wand, before turning it on my victim’s brother.

“Any famous last words, Amycus?” I sneered. “Any last excuses or explanations for trying to leave my service?”

“How did you even _know?!”_ he shouted. “Words spoken in the privacy of my own home shouldn’t be—”

“You DARE question what I am allowed to learn about my followers? With that disrespectful attitude, I would kill you anyway, even if you _hadn’t_ been planning to run! But just _try_ to justify your actions. Go on. Convince me to delay your death for another moment. _I dare you.”_

Anger flashed across his face. “You send us on suicide missions and expect us to stay loyal? No one can survive such—” 

 _“Avada Kedavra.”_  

Amycus fell backwards and cracked his skull on the floor as he landed. My followers pretended not to be disturbed by the sight as I strode over to Alecto and shot a Killing Curse at her heart.

“Lauri, remove the bodies,” I told one of my most recent recruits, who was hovering in the doorway. “And make sure their Dark Marks are visible, as per our tradition. The Ministry will get the message.”

I always gave the newest ones the thankless jobs to test their loyalty. Lauri did not object, and he completed the task without complaint.

One day, maybe I would stop having to waste my time eliminating traitors because only loyal wizards would approach me.

Maybe.

But that day was obviously not _to_ day.

*   *   * 

Though I’d been exceedingly disappointed to find so many traitors as of late, life wasn’t all doom and gloom: Margo’s letters were growing quite amusing. She and her friends were clearly growing up—finding their niche, getting to know themselves, and figuring out what they wanted to do when they graduated. When they weren’t studying, they often held lengthy discussions on their grandiosity and how they would influence the Wizarding world as adults. 

As a prospective mental health Healer, Sofia had taken it upon herself to psychoanalyze everyone in the group and give them lengthy written reports on her findings. The other girls found this hilarious, if not a bit creepy; but Sofia was a bit creepy, so no one was surprised.

She diagnosed everyone in the group with some degree of narcissism. Chicky and Sheena wore the label with pride, and became even more smug about all the increasingly sophisticated pranks they played on their classmates. Their antics reminded Margo of the Weasley twins Fred and George, who had fled Hogwarts before Umbridge’s sacking a few years prior—they had converted a Hogwarts corridor into a swamp and flew off on their broomsticks after being threatened by Argus Filch. Margo had been mildly amused, but she didn’t care for the boisterous Gryffindor boys, who had gone on to join Zonko’s Joke Shop.

Chicky and Sheena became acquainted with the young men, but only as possible connections in their quest to help build their brand. The girls were determined to surpass the ginger twins’ ingenuity, but with a more sinister twist: they were apparently cozying up to the owners of Zonko’s, hoping to either join the team or open their own joke shop after completing their education. I did not doubt their ability to achieve this.

Margo enjoyed hearing her friends discuss their plans, but she wasn’t interested in such a lifestyle. She still wanted to be a simple Ministry worker with a stable job and decent pay. Having seen the trouble that Draco had wraught with all the attention he’d called to himself, Margo was completely turned off by the thought of being memorable. Maybe she would wield influence over others and maybe she wouldn’t; but her primary goal was independence. And, I assumed, to become a competent Death Eater. I couldn’t wait to see how she would rise to the task when the time came.

*   *   * 

My followers at the Ministry executed our plans well until a week before Christmas. I’m not sure if that frivolous _holiday spirit_ nonsense made people lose their sensibilities, or feel compelled to drink themselves into a stupor; but whatever the reason, Rowle nearly got caught as a Death Eater.

He attended a Christmas party with some coworkers, and I watched the scene in the globe to make sure he and his comrades were behaving themselves. All went well until he made what he thought was a harmless remark to Thicknesse:

~

_“You Know Who would neevvvver stand for this, mate. He wouldn’t give a unicorn’s arrrse about celebrating Christmas.”_

_“How would_ you  _know what You Know Who does this time of year?” shot back a nearby witch. “Do you know him or something? Are you working for him, Rowle? Should I tell your boss? I don’t much like you, anyway.”_

 _“It was juuust a joke, Miss Murphy,” Rowle drawled, plastering a slick smile on his face and crossing his burly arms. “And if you don’t like me, I know of a few ways I could fix that. I’m not_ that  _hard to like, once you get to know me.” He looked her up and down and cackled at her ensuing snarl._

 _“Assuming it was only a joke and you’re not secretly a Death Eater,” she spat, “you need to take your machismo somewhere else! It doesn’t belong here.”_

_“Ahh, but it’s a parrrty, my dear lady. We’re suppoooosed to let loose. Why don’t you relaaax a bit, eh?”_

_“Who’s secretly a Death Eater?” called out a wizard who had overheard the dialogue._

_“Rowle!” Murphy replied. “He just made a joke about You Know Who turning up his nose at the notion of a Christmas party. I couldn’t help wondering if—”_

_“He’s not a Death Eater,” Thicknesse interrupted. “Come now, we all know how boistrous Rowle gets when he’s had too many. Carry on!”_

_“I’ll CARRY ON when that egotistical arse stops harassing me. Death Eater or not!”_

_“You really should apologize, mate,” Thicknesse mumbled._

_Rowle sighed loudly and put one of his big, hairy arms around Murphy, tightening his grip as she tried to squirm away. “I am sooo_ veryveryvery  _sorry to have offennnded you, m’dear lady,” he slurred. “Toooo right you were that You Know Who is_ noottt  _a laughing matter. I dooo apologize.”_

 _He kept his arm around her until Thicknesse tugged on his thick blonde ponytail, signaling that he needed to back off. The drunken man’s response was delayed, but he eventually got the message._

~

At least, he _thought_ he’d gotten the message. He hadn’t yet dealt with me.

I didn’t care how drunk the man had been; there was _no_ excuse for talking about me in a casual manner around people who were against our organization. If he got himself locked up in Azkaban for a loose tongue, thereby rendering himself unable to serve me, then maybe he wasn’t as capable a Death Eater as I thought. I’d have to find out.     

At the last meeting of the year, I made a few brief announcements and then wasted no time in laying into Rowle. 

“I need to touch on a subject that none of you were likely expecting me to discuss,” I told the group. “I am aware of a certain holiday party for Ministry workers that occurred this past weekend, where _someone_ made a joke about my lack of interest in such folly.” I looked daggers at the offender. 

Rowle looked at the table as if his bowels had just let loose. I didn’t care either way; my plans for him were infinitely worse than a pair of soiled trousers. I stood up and strode over to him.

“Have you anything to say for yourself?” I asked.

“My Lord, if I may—how...how did you know about—”

“I know everything, Rowle. _Nothing_ escapes me. _Crucio!”_  

Rowle screamed and jerked in his seat a few times before collapsing onto the floor, crashing into Bellatrix on the way down. She huffed and rolled her eyes before swiping at her robes where his head had made contact. 

“I’m sorry, my Lord!” Rowle screamed. “I’m sorry!” 

“I don’t care that you’re _sorry._ Being sorry changes nothing. How do you justify making yourself a security risk?” 

“I was drunk! I didn’t know anyone would overhear; I though I’d kept my voice low enough! It was just a quip to Pius! I didn’t think anything of it! I promise it won’t happen again!” 

“Oh I know. _Secca!”_

A deep gash appeared on his left shoulder, and I smirked as blood bloomed out across his robe. He yelped some more. 

 _This must be the spell from which Snape formed “Sectumsempra,”_ I thought as I absentmindedly watched Rowle writhe on the floor.  _Much more deadly than Secca, certainly, but I’m not out to murder this imbecile. At least not right now._  

I lifted the Cruciatus Curse after a few more minutes of the man’s yowling, and he immediately feigned indifference instead of agony. As if I couldn’t tell. All my Death Eaters knew that I could reduce anyone, even a big, brawny man like Rowle, to a snivelling mess on the floor.  

“I don’t care if you want to harass a female coworker just to prove your virility; you do NOT speak of me outside these walls! You give NO ONE any reason to suspect your affiliation with me! If you breathe _one more word_ about me, or say anything else to call attention to yourself as a Death Eater, I will kill you. And it will not be a short, painless event; I can assure you of that! Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord,” he replied as he slowly rose, grabbing onto the table for assistance. “I will not—I never meant to implicate you in any way, or advertise my loyalty to you. I’m sorry. I was—I was foolish. You were right. I will never again—” 

“Save it, Rowle. I’ve heard enough. I have no patience for performative groveling.”

He nodded quickly and looked at his feet. 

As Rowle and I returned to our seats, I finished conducting the meeting as if nothing had happened. My followers were well accustomed to the torture of their comrades, but not one of them ever managed to hide their relief that they weren’t the ones on the end of my wand. I chuckled as I watched all of them attempting to conceal their thoughts from the world’s most powerful Legilimens. As tough as they all acted, they’d be nothing without me. And they knew it.

“You are all dismissed,” I spat after a drawn-out silence. “Have a _very_ Happy New Year!”

More than likely, the _happy_ part would be in their temporary escape from my temper. Not that I expected them to think otherwise. 

*   *   *

Unlike most people, I didn’t need Christmas presents or a New Year’s party to feel exceptionally happy. I had given myself the best present possible: a gigantic globe that could show me anything and anyone I wished to see. It also assisted me in Summoning objects from farther away than, I imagine, any wizard had ever Summoned anything before.

“Smug” was putting it mildly. I was drunk on the superiority of my achievements. My globe was a remarkable addition to my already-extraordinary abilities. The power I could now wield by silently intruding on people’s private lives would create more psychological terror than even the torture I employed through Legilimency. Rowle’s shock and horror at my knowledge of his misbehavior was proof of that. No one would ever be immune to my probing again, no matter how many hours they wasted learning Occlumency. People’s defenses were down when they thought they were alone—but if they caught my attention enough for me to watch them regularly, they would never be truly alone.

I would be alone, however, in my knowledge of this magnificent device, as I would never tell a soul about its existence. My power was now beyond measure—as it bloody well should be. I had earned this.


	16. Alex | First Half of Year 4 (2001)

Get away and save yourself  
Turn away and don’t look back  
Get away and save yourself  
Gray skies are turning black  
‘Cause I will always hurt everyone I love  
If I were you, I’d run away  
‘Cause it’s true that  
I will always hurt everyone I love  
I’m aching for you  
But you’re bound to pay if I adore you

—Black Light Burns ~ “Coward”

 

This was my first trip to school where someone actually chose to sit with me, and not reluctantly. After a round of big hugs from our parents, Morgan and I boarded the Hogwarts Express together.

We didn’t talk much—she could tell that I was mildly annoyed about having to actually speak to someone on the train instead of sticking my face in a textbook. I was able to do _some_ reading, but spent most of the time answering my sister’s questions about Hogwarts. To my surprise, I ended up enjoying the discussion, and Morgan relaxed more as time went by. She was even bouncing around a little bit.

Though I was relatively content, I still envied Morgan so much—I’d had no one to lean on during my first trip to Hogwarts. By sitting with me and asking me all the questions she wanted, Morgan was sheltered from the scrutiny of having to explain her accent within minutes of boarding a train by herself. She was sheltered from the fear of making a bad impression amongst strangers by sitting alone; anyone walking past our compartment would view her as normal. And for whatever reason—maybe because of my reputation—no one joined us. Therefore, she also didn’t need to worry about her outward presentation just yet; she had me to help ease her transition from home to boarding school. No one had helped me with any of that. 

Morgan had no concept of how lucky she was. Insulated as always while I took invisible blow after blow, she actually got to feel like a real kid with age-appropriate concerns. I hadn’t had that experience three years prior, and it didn’t even occur to my sister to fully appreciate her good fortune—much less thank me for my assistance. It was hard not to glare at her, or say something nasty just so I wouldn’t be the only one feeling resentful. Even though I was trying to mature, sometimes it was just too tempting to act like a brat. At least I held in the urge this time.

“Do you mind if I go and meet some people?” Morgan asked after about an hour. 

“Sure! Go have fun,” I replied cheerfully. _Ahh, I can finally read in peace. Run along, now._

As soon as my sister left the compartment, I pulled out my new Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook and picked up where I’d left off the night before. I read until the conductor announced that we’d be arriving at Hogwarts in fifteen minutes. After stashing my book and donning my school robes, I reviewed what I’d read and practiced the spells in my mind so that I’d be better prepared for that lesson. Which would likely take place in December.

I grinned broadly as I looked out the window and saw my beloved school come into view. I was already lost in my thoughts by the time the train doors opened. 

As I made my way onto the platform, I heard, “Alex! Alex!” 

I turned around and saw Morgan bounding toward me with a short black girl. 

“Alex! This is Francesca! We met a few minutes ago. She’s really nice!” Morgan was beaming, clearly relieved to have made a friend so quickly.

“Hi, Francesca. I’m Morgan’s big sister. Nice to meet you!” We shook hands.

“You, too,” she replied quietly. She seemed shy, but polite. Or maybe it was just typical first-year jitters. 

“What House do you think you’ll be in?”

“I don’t know, but I’m so excited to finally be at Hogwarts. I’ve read through most of my textbooks already—” 

_Ravenclaw. Definitely Ravenclaw._  

She went on about her textbooks for a few minutes, which made me giggle.

“You know, I actually do the same thing every summer,” I told her. “I don’t have much of a social life, so—” 

“Did you really?? Oh, I love it!!”

“She’s the best in her year,” Morgan cut in. 

“Oh, wow! So if I need help with something in class, could I ask you?”

My eyes widened for a second. “Um—sure!” 

_Make a good impression, Alex. Be friendly. Helping a younger student could improve your social standing._

Morgan suddenly looked uncomfortable. She was anxious to make friends at school, and the first person she met already seemed to like me more than her. In a way, I couldn’t blame my sister; I was older and knew what I was doing, so any first-year would want to latch onto someone like that. However, I also resented her again, since I was _accustomed_ to being the odd one out. She had no concept of how that felt on a regular basis. I wished I’d possessed such ignorance, at least at her age. 

I tuned out my sister’s awkwardness and paid more attention to her new friend, who was still bubbling over with excitement. Basking in the warm glow of Francesca’s enthusiasm, my prior grumpiness (mostly) melted away and I couldn’t help but smile. I chatted with her until the first-years were herded off to the boats.

“Good luck, Morgan!” I called out as my sister climbed into a boat with Francesca and two other kids.

The evening began as it always did: with the Sorting Hat’s singing, and then Professor McGonagall’s reading the names of all the wide-eyed first-years. Though the event did seem a bit strange without Dumbledore, his absence didn’t cut through me like it did so many others as we had a moment of silence to remember him. The way I saw it, everyone already knew that McGonagall had taken over, so why belabor the point?

Apparently, a bunch of people with the sniffles must have deigned such behavior necessary. But _I_ was the one who needed to toughen up. 

At least I had the sense to copy what everyone else was doing. I looked solemnly at my lap, just like my peers, before McGonagall reclaimed our attention and began the Sorting ceremony. As the ritual was no longer a spectacle to me, I didn’t pay much attention—until about halfway through. I stopped talking to Ashlee a few minutes before McGonagall called out, “HALAWAY, MORGAN!” 

“That’s your sister, isn’t it?” Mark asked me. I nodded.

_This should be interesting._

The professor’s face had dropped into a scowl the second her brain registered my last name on the parchment. Though I doubted anyone else had seen, I’d noticed the gesture immediately. I was a hair’s breadth away from yelling, “Don’t worry, you judgmental bitch; my perfect little sister is _nothing_ like me! You’ll just LOVE her.”

_How DARE you! Fifty points from Slytherin, and detention every day for a month!_ I imagined her replying. I shook my head at the unfairness of it all.

Blessedly oblivious to my thoughts, McGonagall looked out anxiously at the incoming students. She was likely waiting for a tiny human terror to emerge from the mass of frightened faces. Instead of a living nightmare, however, my _adorable_ little sister split from the group and walked forward, looking about as menacing as a flobberworm.

Morgan quietly sauntered over to the stool and looked up with a furrowed brow when McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on top of her bright red hair. After about ten seconds, the hat boomed, “RAVENCLAW!” 

“No surprises there,” I drawled with an obnoxious slow clap, snarling as McGonagall’s frown relaxed into a small grin of relief. My peers giggled at my snark, while Morgan waved awkwardly before tiptoeing away to join her new Housemates. I gave her a half-smile. 

“You’re still the only Slytherin in your family, aren’t you,” Monica remarked. 

“Yeah; what can you do. It is what it is.”

Ashlee murmured her agreement.

The ceremony continued. I busied myself with analyzing my House table to survey all the new students, occasionally adding to everyone’s comments until another name caught my attention. 

“KAMA JAEGER, FRANCESCA!” 

I watched the little girl gallop up to the stool and stroke the Sorting Hat, beaming as if she were meeting her childhood idol. McGonagall instructed Francesca to take a seat and keep her hands to herself. That seemed to deflate her a bit.

I chuckled. _Damn, this kid is enthusiastic. Petting the Sorting Hat? Really?_

The hat had barely touched her head when it declared, “RAVENCLAW!”

_Duh._  

Francesca beamed as she bounced over to the Ravenclaw table and sat next to Morgan. I nodded when she glanced my way. 

I wondered what the girls were discussing. Francesca seemed too excited to share her classmates’ apprehension, and appeared to be trying—albeit unsuccessfully—to calm my sister’s nerves. I wondered how quickly she’d learn that virtually nothing calmed Morgan’s nerves. It hadn’t taken _me_ long to figure that out.

And then I reminded myself not to ruminate on family drama. I was back at Hogwarts—my _real_ home. Finally.

*   *   * 

After falling into my usual routine of attending classes and studying, I decided to see if the library held the Dark wizard encyclopedia I’d looked at in Diagon Alley. I had to be very careful—I couldn’t ask for help if I had trouble locating it. No one could know that I was reading about the Dark Arts. I had to find the book myself.

I wasn’t sure what was harder: finding the volume, or containing my excitement upon discovering it. No one grinned like a kid in a candy store and squealed with delight in the Hogwarts library. It just didn’t happen. I had to bite my lip until it hurt in order to quash my scream of triumph, after scanning several rows of magical history books and finally spotting my prize on the bottom of a dusty shelf near a window. After walking back to my table, taking great care to appear calm and serious, I opened the book on top of my homework and began to read.

The subject matter was fascinating. I wanted to devour the book in one sitting, but it was too long and I couldn’t check it out without putting my name on it. I could only read it after studying in the library—out in the open, and yet hiding in plain sight. I could take notes on the material, and it would look like I was simply doing homework. No one would even take notice. And if I could do it once, then....

_Maybe I could make this a regular thing._

Hogwarts likely had scant reading material on Dark magic itself, but we did study all angles of magical history. I wondered if the Restricted Section housed some more in-depth Dark material, but I didn’t dare try to go in there. I’d need a permission slip from a teacher, and none of my professors liked me enough—though Snape’s replacement, Professor Slughorn, appeared more malleable than the others. Regardless, it didn’t seem worth the risk. Restricted Section access or not, this little foray was something I had to do alone. 

Dark magic research became part of my schedule from that day forward. Every time I studied in the library, I also browsed the History section for more information on Dark witches and wizards of the past. I read every book I could get my hands on, taking notes as if preparing for an important exam. 

Saturday became my favorite day of the week. The library was much less crowded, with all the older students going to Hogsmeade and relaxing in their common rooms. In fact, I could spend the whole day doing research if I had completed my homework ahead of time. My secret studies were still contained to biographies, but there was enough information on people like Voldemort and Grindelwald to satisfy my curiosity.

After about a month, I had become adept at finding obscure books referencing the Dark Arts in the accessible portion of the library, and I was no longer nervous about getting caught. No one really paid attention to me outside of class, as it was.

I was bummed on the first Saturday during which I had no time for research. It had to happen eventually, but I was still annoyed. I staked out an empty table in the library like always, piled my textbooks next to me, and worked on a Potions essay until a sound distracted me.

“A-Alex?” a quiet voice asked from a few feet away.

I turned toward the sound and saw the little girl I’d met before the sorting ceremony. “Francesca, right?”

“Yeah. I have a question. Can I—can I come sit with you?”

“Wha—oh! Um...sure, I guess.”

Francesca’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to talk to me, do you.”

“Oh, no! That’s not what I meant—sorry. I’m just shocked that someone actually wants to sit with me—I mean, actually going out of their way to sit with me. That’s never happened before.” 

She stared. “Really?! That’s horrible!”

I shrugged, not knowing what to say.

“I always—I hope this doesn’t sound creepy, but I’ve always thought you were so cool!” she exclaimed, inching a bit closer to me. “You seem like someone any new student would admire. I wanted to talk to you after the Sorting ceremony, but I didn’t know what to say. I felt so silly. And Morgan doesn’t really like to talk about you, so....” 

It was my turn to stare.

_Someone actually wants to be my friend. Someone fucking looks up to me, instead of looking down on me. I’m not sure what to do with this._

“Is—is that okay? Can I come over there?”

“Y-yeah, sure! Pull up a chair.”

Francesca looked like she’d just received a present she’d wanted for months.

“So, what’s up?” I asked.

“Well...I’m having some trouble with this History of Magic unit and I was wondering if you could help me? I’m doing well in my other subjects, and I usually like learning about history, but Professor Binns is so _boring_ and it’s really hard to pay attention—”

“He _is_ boring. I play this game with myself sometimes, counting the number of kids who fall asleep.”

Francesca laughed loudly, earning her a glare from Madam Pince. “See, I _knew_ you were really cool! Why don’t your Housemates want to hang out with you?”

“They’re scared of me. I have a habit of hurting people who cross me—” 

Her face lit up. “Really?! That’s amazing that you stand up for yourself! What do you do?” 

I told her all about the antics from my first year, excluding the conference-that-wasn’t with my parents. I didn’t need anyone to know about that.

Francesca was enthralled. Though she obviously liked me for _me,_ the Hogwarts library was no place to discuss such matters. I managed to steer the conversation back to History of Magic, and we had a productive study session.

And just like that, Francesca and I began doing homework together in the library a few times a week. I helped her when she hit a rough spot, but we generally didn’t talk much; she just enjoyed my company. And I found myself enjoying hers. We were soon chatting in the Great Hall almost every day, popping over to each other’s House tables to share a piece of juicy news.

She declared us best friends after a month. And so it became official. I didn’t just have a friend; I had a _best_ friend. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make me extremely happy. I was suddenly fighting off crazy smiles instead of crazy amounts of tears.

Morgan also liked the arrangement, as we now had a friend in common. My sister and I ended up talking more because of our shared friendship with Francesca. There was still a strain in our interactions, as she’d seen me at my worst, but she tolerated me better than before. We always got along better when Francesca was with us.

My new best friend was quite an interesting person. She was a tomboy at heart, and hated that her parents made her wear dresses, so she found the gender-neutral school robes a relief. She wore pants instead of skirts under her robes whenever she could, even if it meant getting in trouble for disobeying the dress code. I admired her defiance. 

Though born in England, Francesca had a rich heritage. Her mother, Galila Kama, was a reserved Muslim woman whose family had moved to England from the continent of Africa. Galila had refused to specify any details beyond that—even their country of origin. Francesca never knew why. Either way, she was proud of her mother, a nurse at St. Mungo’s who treated underprivileged patients. 

Her father, Artur Jaeger, was a German wizard who worked as an ambassador for the Ministry of Magic. He traveled frequently between England and America, in liaison with both Wizarding and Muggle governments, and also served on the Hogwarts Board of Governors. He was a busy man. An animated, outgoing person, he often regaled his children with tales of his trips abroad and his large family’s history. 

Frieda and Rachel, Francesca’s two younger sisters, attended Ilvermorny. Their father had arranged this with the American Ministry—given his frequent travels, he preferred having his children in both countries so he could be near at least one of them no matter what.

Francesca’s two older half-siblings had been disowned. She wouldn’t tell me their names, or why they’d been ousted—they didn’t even deserve to be spoken about, she said. I left it alone.

And then I wondered if I’d ever be disowned. I figured I wouldn’t care, as long as I had somewhere to go—maybe Francesca’s family would take me in? I made a mental note to ask her if the need ever arose. In the meantime, I enjoyed listening to her stories of her father’s travels, her sisters’ descriptions of Ilvermorny, and her impression of Hogwarts thus far. She was the most enthusiastic person I’d ever met, but she expressed her excitement in such a way that I found it more endearing than annoying. Her behavior was never over the top, and she had a knack for brightening my day whenever I was feeling gloomy. A worthy best friend.

*   *   *

Seeing that I was now interacting with other people, my Housemates’ fear of me finally began to soften a bit. A pleasant surprise followed: I began conversing with Ashlee and Monica enough that I felt comfortable calling them friends. I never completely trusted them, but I did like them. And I figured they could be useful if they liked me enough to do what I asked one day—probably a small gesture, like putting in a good word for me if I wanted to align myself with a popular person they liked. Or maybe their friendship could help my social standing, if we ended up working at the same job a few years down the road. I grew more friendly around them, and they stuck with me as a result. Once more, they gradually began including me in some study sessions and Hogsmeade visits—and not as a last resort—allowing me to reach some level of respect among the group. 

We also had an unexpected subject to bond over: a mutual hatred of a mousy first-year Slytherin named Erica Hornby. The dirty blonde had no place in our House, with her putrid insecurity, high-pitched voice, and penchant for tagging along behind older students. One night at dinner, we all just started bitching about her at the same time, without actually mentioning her name—but everyone knew who was being discussed. And the conversation spilled over until we all went to bed. Our rapport was hilarious, and something we always came back to when there was nothing else to talk about. I loved it. (It also didn’t hurt that Francesca had ranted to me about Erica after being forced to work with her in Potions. That alone _almost_ made my best friend part of my fourth-year group, and they stopped feeling put upon when she bounced over to the Slytherin table every other day.)

After I’d been unofficially granted this group membership, the tension in the common room began to wane at last. I knew the friction would never completely disappear, but love and friendship weren’t my goals. What I needed was calm, basic respect, and predictability. And I finally had that. 

At least, until I met Matthew. 

Matthew Fletcher was a tall, lanky seventh-year Slytherin with dark eyes and curly brown hair that fell a few inches past his shoulders. He looked normal from behind, wearing his school robes, but I noticed his rebellious fashion choices as I got closer: he was sporting black eyeliner, a studded green bracelet, and nail polish—one nail on each hand was painted silver, while the rest were black.

I’d likely never seen him before because I hadn’t bothered to pay attention to my older Housemates until recently. It had taken me a month to learn the names of my fellow first-years, for crying out loud, so why on Earth would I have concerned myself with students three years my senior? Doubting that I’d ever interact with them, what was the point?

The point was that one early November evening, on my way out of the Great Hall after dinner, I took one look at this boy and my whole world stopped moving. I forgot to breathe. It was a bit frightening, actually. He didn’t see me, so I followed him for a little while—I grew excited, thinking he was on his way back to the Slytherin dungeons. 

_Could I? What if—_

He made a sharp right and headed for Ravenclaw Tower.

_Damn it. I should probably turn around now—_

“Hey, are you lost?” a resonant deep voice asked, snapping me back to reality. The boy had just spoken to me.

“Oh! Um, no, I—” _Shit._

“Are you going to Ravenclaw Tower as well?” he asked with a cocky smirk. “Why else would you be over here? You got a friend in there?”

_Francesca. Yes. Perfect._  

“Yeah!” I breathed, ecstatic for having thought of a solution so quickly. “My best friend is a Ravenclaw.” I quickly caught up to the stunner, suddenly feeling lighter on my feet. 

“What a coincidence!” he remarked, elbowing me playfully. “My girlfriend is a Ravenclaw and I’m going to relax with her until curfew.” 

“Your—oh, cool.” _Fuck._

“Whoa, wait—are you American?”

_Here we go again._ “Yeah. Hogwarts wanted me because my mom is English.”

“Oh, nice! That’s exciting.”

“Nah. I hate people’s shock over my accent. It got old so quickly.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your accent. It’s cute.” 

“Aww, really?”

“Yeah!”

I stared at him for a moment, trying not to gape too much as my face warmed slightly.

“Well, let’s go then!” He squeezed my shoulder.

“I—yeah, yeah, let’s go.” _He just touched me twice. And I actually liked it. Oh my god._

“Are you always this tongue-tied? You seem like—” 

_FUCK!!_ “No, sorry. I’m just really surprised to see another Sliver—a Slytherin going to the Ravenclaw common room.” _WHY I AM STUTTERING LIKE A GOD DAMN—_

“Oh, yeah, I guess that doesn’t happen too often. I’m Matthew, by the way. Matthew Fletcher.”

“Alex Halaway.” We shook hands. And I found myself wanting to keep my hand in his for a while. His grip was strong and comforting, and I had a feeling I’d be replaying that handshake for several hours.

We made small talk until we arrived at the door to the Ravenclaw common room. A short, stick-thin platinum blonde was waiting nearby. She waved excitedly. 

_Really? THAT’S your girlfriend?! She’s, like, four feet tall! Okay, maybe five feet—but you’re, what, six-five? Gimme a break. I could split her in half with my bare hands. At least the top of my head comes up to your fucking shoulders. And my limbs don't look like twigs; this fragile wimp needs to eat a cheeseburger. I can already tell that I look better by your side than she does. Get the fuck outta here with this bitch._

“Heyyy!” she called out to Matthew in a breathy singsong voice that sounded like nails on a blackboard—to me, at least. Her grin disappeared the instant her eyes landed on me. “Who—who is she?”

“We met on the way over here. She’s visiting her best friend. Alex, this is my girlfriend, Jackie.”

I shook hands with the tiny Ravenclaw, who winced at my firm grip. I tried to smile politely, but it probably came off as a challenging sneer instead. _Oh well. I can’t win all the time._

Promptly giving me her back, Jackie slipped her arm around Matthew’s waist and led him into the common room, after answering the requisite question posed by the door’s bronze knocker. I followed, not having heard the question or answer—my mind was already elsewhere, wondering how quickly I could split this couple apart.

“Hey, Francesca!” I called out, with a confidence I did not feel.

_Please be in here, Fran. Please don’t make me look stupid in front of this gorgeous boy. And I don’t like all these damn Ravenclaws staring at me like the intruder that I am._

“Alex!!” she exclaimed after an eternity—which was probably more like three seconds. “What are you doing here?” 

_Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!! Think, Alex. Get out of this mess quickly._

“I thought you said you were meeting her,” Matthew remarked. 

“It was a surprise,” I drawled smoothly, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. “I didn’t say she was expecting me, did I? I just said I was on my way here.”

Jackie glared at me.

_Oops, did I just flirt with your boyfriend? Sorry, honey. We’ll have to switch places one day. Don’t get too cozy next to him._

I felt a tug on my sleeve. “Alex, what are you doing here?” Francesca asked again, more softly this time. 

“I just thought I’d pop over for a visit!” I replied cheerfully. 

She cocked her head to the side, holding in a laugh as she appraised me with a suspicious glint in her eyes.

“Come on,” she ordered, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward her dorm before I had a chance to say goodbye to the odd couple.

I looked around as my friend led me up the stairs—the Ravenclaw common room was beautiful. And there were books everywhere. I could definitely make a habit of coming here, even Matthewless. 

Francesca plopped down on her bed once we’d arrived in the girls’ dormitory. “Alex, what are you _really_ up to?” she asked as I sat down opposite her. “I know you. You’ve never just barged into a room and screamed at me. What’s going on?”

“Did you see that boy I walked in with?” I whispered. 

“Yeah, what about him?”

“I just—” I looked around to make sure no one could hear me. “I just saw him after dinner and I couldn’t get over how fucking beautiful he was. I followed him out of the Great Hall—” 

“NO, YOU DIDN’T!!” Francesca fell backwards onto her bed and started howling, clutching her stomach as she shook with laughter. 

“Bitch, I didn’t know he was coming here!” I hissed. “I saw he was a Slytherin and I thought he’d be going to OUR common room! He just...he caught me following him and I didn’t know what to say! He told me he was on his way to see his _giirrrlllfriieeennnd_ , soooooo I figured that seeing you would be a perfect excuse for me to join him! Can you really blame me?”

Francesca was still laughing too hard to speak, banging her fist on the mattress.

“Are you finished?!” I rolled my eyes and folded my arms across my chest. I stayed in that position until the cackling Ravenclaw finally calmed down. 

“Oh, Merlin, Alex. I love it. Did he seem to like you? In _that_ way?”

“Too early to tell. But since we seem to get along, I might start _coincidentally_ sitting near him at meals. We’ll see what happens.”

“You know you’ll have to tell me everything.” 

“Duh.” 

She giggled some more.

“Should I stay here for a bit just to make my story look believable?”

“Or you could stay here because I’m your best friend and you actually _like_ me?!” 

Now I giggled. We chatted for about half an hour before I left for the Slytherin dungeons, smiling more than I had in ages.

*   *   *

The smiling didn’t last long. The sound of screaming voices assaulted my ears as I entered the Slytherin common room, instantly melting away my good mood. I stopped in my tracks.

Monica was arguing fiercely with a third-year boy named Derek, whom she apparently had been dating for two months. I hadn’t noticed. Now, however, she was shouting at him like a banshee, waving her arms around and occasionally stomping her foot as she accused him of leading her on while he dated other girls. He responded by yelling louder to drown out her voice, insisting that she was overreacting. 

“What the fuck are you raving about?” I asked when Monica finally stopped screeching for a moment. She whipped her blonde head around and glared at me. 

“Why the fuck do _you_ care? This has nothing to _do_ with you! Go away!”

_So much for including me in the group!_ “I can’t be in my own damn common room? What the hell is wrong with you? This isn’t your backyard!”

“Even I have to agree with her,” Derek mumbled. 

“With whom?” I demanded, putting my hands on my hips and marching over to the boy.

“You!” he exclaimed quickly, jumping back to get out of slapping distance. “She—she’s crazy! We were just having fun and she thought we were, I dunno, _serious_ or something. I mean, yeah, she’s cute and funny...but I don’t wanna think about spending my life with someone when I’m only thir—” 

“You SAID we were serious, you slick git!” Monica bellowed. “And then I saw you kissing that fifth-year trollop who’s probably snogged half the boys at Hogwarts! And since when do you care what _she_ thinks?” She jabbed her finger in my direction and sneered. 

_Yeah, I’m definitely not part of the group. Study with me all you want, but I know you’ll never see me as one of you. It’s okay, though. I don’t need you._

They continued bickering for several minutes, arguing over the terms of their tattered relationship, before Monica looked at me again and acted like I was trespassing because I was still standing there.

“Go away!” she repeated. “Stop listening in!”

“Fine, bitch! You count being in OUR common room as fucking eavesdropping? I’ll get out of your way. But don’t come running to me the next time a boy dumps you because you get too attached and he can’t handle it!” 

I turned on my heel and went back out the way I’d come, ignoring another flurry of Monica’s insults. It didn’t matter that curfew was ten minutes away; whatever points I could lose by being caught, I’d surely earn back with my academic performance. And who cared if that took me a while? I didn’t want to be in the common room—or anywhere near the ranting Monica—even if it meant getting in trouble. I’d been in worse positions before.

Sighing loudly, I set off down the hall and began walking as briskly as possible. I needed to diffuse my anger through movement—writing in my journal wouldn’t cut it. Not when the adrenaline was pumping this hard. 

I didn’t even pay attention to where I was going; I just walked and walked. I lost track of time and completely spaced out, not wanting to be hyper-aware of my surroundings like I normally was. Maybe that was why it startled me so much. 

A pair of feet. 

A pair of feet walking without a body.

Was this some obscure spell? Maybe Peeves was messing around again. I flattened myself against the wall, not wanting to attract the poltergeist’s attention...but it wasn’t Peeves. It was just a tiny pair of black and yellow shoes moving by themselves. That wasn’t normal. What could possibly— 

_Holy mother of Merlin._

It was a small child with an invisibility cloak. And the stupid kid had forgotten to cover his feet. Oh, this was gold. 

Creeping up behind the feet, I made a grab for the invisible fabric, which came off with surprising ease. I’d stepped back and covered my whole body before the boy had been able to see my face. As the child began groping the air for his missing cloak, I silently backed up about ten paces...and grinned devilishly as he burst into hysterical tears. I covered my mouth to stifle a huge flood of giggles—until a few minutes had passed, and the boy was still weeping.

_Oh my god, can I just snap his fucking neck so he stops blubbering? That sound is grating on my nerves._

I twitched as I fought back the surge of bloodthirsty rage I now knew so well. It would not serve me here.

Professor Sprout suddenly appeared out of nowhere—obviously on patrol duty, she must have heard the boy’s sobs and her maternal instinct had taken over.

“What’s wrong dear?” Bending over, she lovingly placing her hands on the shuddering boy’s shoulders. She didn’t even bother to scold him for being out of bed after hours. 

“S-she took someth-thinggg....” he wailed, pointing about five feet away from my general direction.

“Who? Who took—what did someone take, sweetheart?”

“I c-can’t tell you! It’s a secret...and my m-mum—she’ll be so upset with meeee....” 

Now I _really_ wanted to snap the boy’s neck. I wanted to decapitate him and use his head as a fucking Quaffle. And I didn’t even like Quidditch. 

_Your paintings are so gruesome!_ my mother’s voice suddenly whined inside my head. But instead of a frantic need to water down my feelings to deescalate a fight over my morbidity, I felt absolutely nothing. I analyzed my response to the boy’s crying and realized it was simply my natural way of reacting to people I didn’t like. I supposed I was no longer tiptoeing around my inner darkness because I had fearlessly stood up to my parents without censoring myself over the summer...and I had come out relatively unscathed. I had talked back before, certainly, but never to the extent that I had told them _exactly_ what I’d thought of them. And even though I’d been scolded fiercely after the fact, I’d still felt so refreshed and relieved to have gotten everything out of my system. As the saying went: I’d accepted the bad with the good, and the good with the bad.

At least now, I no longer felt the need to share my feelings with my family. I didn’t need their approval anymore. I had realized, through my friendship with Francesca, that it was possible for other people to truly like me. Maybe I was not, in fact, some outlier with no hope of acceptance anywhere—childhood wasn’t the be-all-end-all of social interactions. 

In short, I no longer feared retribution for indulging my dark little heart. This newfound courage would make my life so much easier.

When I’d brought my focus back to the present moment, I heard Sprout deducting _only_ ten points from Hufflepuff for the boy’s disobedience. He was just a little first-year, and his distress _obviously_ warranted some leniency!

_Yeah, as if something that lucky would EVER have happened to me as a first-year. Ha ha fuckity ha._

But then I realized something: I waslucky _right now_. I had an invisibility cloak. _I had a fucking invisibility cloak!_ And I would never tell anyone, lest the conversation be overheard, or the person I told grew jealous and tried to steal it. It wasn’t worth the risk. And why would I want to tell anyone, anyway? My life was no one else’s business unless I chose to make it so. This was my own private secret. My favorite kind of secret. 

I could wander the halls after hours if I couldn’t sleep. I could sneak into the kitchens for a snack if I got hungry. Hell—I could even sneak off school grounds and go to Hogsmeade by myself, day or night. I could go anywhere I wanted.

Like the Restricted Section. 

I headed to the library to begin looking for Dark Magic books. Why wait? I had the cloak, and I was already outside my dorm. I didn’t want to go back just yet. 

After sneaking inside, I slinked through the endless rows of books until I came upon an ornate set of double doors below a sign that read RESTRICTED SECTION. Merlin, what a thrill. After years of wondering if I’d ever get past those doors, it was finally happening. Glancing around to make sure no one was about, I carefully pulled the doors open—while bending down and keeping my hands hidden—and slipped into the room. I was taking no chances.

I wandered among the dark shelves for a few minutes, basking in the ecstasy of breaking a rule for which I would never get caught. The power was intoxicating. It shot through my veins and made my thoughts race. The sweetness of my victory was so consuming that I almost passed a huge wall of books labeled THE DARK ARTS.

_Ohh, here’s the money shot._  

My heart thumped in frantic anticipation. It was like the hunger I’d felt when I’d first set foot in Flourish and Blotts as a ten-year-old, but a thousand times more powerful. I nearly swayed on my feet. Bouncing on my heels, I grinned wildly as I scanned the shelves and lovingly ran my cloak-covered fingers over the contents. I vowed that I would read every single book here, even if it took the rest of my Hogwarts education.

_Better start now. The clock’s ticking._  

I walked to the far left corner of the wall and plucked a book from the bottom shelf. I would work my way up and to the right, taking a new book as I replaced each one I finished, so I wouldn’t miss any of them. There were easily a hundred books here, and I couldn’t cast any spell on them to mark them as read; someone would surely know. But at least I now had unfettered access to this treasure trove.

Slipping the book under my cloak, I scurried back to the Slytherin dungeons and carefully placed the tome at the bottom of my cauldron before climbing into bed. I carefully folded the shimmering material and placed it underneath my pillow. I would move it to my trunk in the morning, since I couldn’t do it now and risk waking my Housemates. No one would go searching for enchanted fabric underneath my pillow, anyway. 

It must have taken me three hours to fall asleep, but I didn’t care. I was too excited to be tired, and I knew I would be too hyped up to be sluggish in the morning. 

*   *   *

My new invisibility cloak was not the only reason I bounced out of bed the next morning: I had met a gorgeous boy who seemed at least interested in being my friend, and I was confident that we could become more than that if I played my cards right. 

My hunch was correct: Matthew and I became extremely close, extremely quickly. It actually shocked me how eager he was to get to know me. There was a spark in his eyes when we talked, that I didn’t quite see when he interacted with Jackie; it seemed almost forced with her, but natural with me. I began sitting with him in the Great Hall a few times a week, where I met his large group of friends...and female admirers. _That_ was a trip. I could hardly blame them, though—of course girls would lose their nerve around a tall, striking boy with a sexy deep voice. He flirted a lot, but it appeared merely harmless fun. I doubted that he’d ever betrayed his girlfriend.

Francesca thought he was adorable and wanted all the details of my interactions with him. Knowing how much rejection I’d faced, she was super excited to see me fall for a boy who seemed to like me back. She also found it hilarious that his Muggleborn friends called him The Crow—he apparently was the spitting image of some Muggle actor who starred in a film by that name, especially when he wore eyeliner.

I thought he was gorgeous with or without makeup. My heart beat faster whenever I saw him, no matter what he was wearing.

Unlike my enthusiastic best friend, Morgan had reservations. She was still quite shy, and felt uneasy about how rapidly I had fallen in with this enigmatic boy and his friends. She stopped talking to me as much, presumably to wait for my interest in Matthew to wane.

She ended up waiting a very, very long time. We barely spoke for the remainder of the school year.

Jackie hated me. She glared at me whenever she saw me talking to Matthew in the Great Hall, and all but ran over to pull him into her arms when meals ended. Though he understood why she felt threatened, he still told her to relax and insisted that nothing was happening between us.

I knew better.

It wasn’t just the look in his eyes when I made him laugh; he sometimes stroked my arm without realizing it, he nudged me after telling a joke to make sure I would respond, and his voice softened when he spoke to me alone. Even our Housemates noticed how much he liked me, and teased me about him occasionally. He couldn’t lie to Jackie forever.

I decided to ask him about their relationship one evening when we were relaxing in the Slytherin common room together. Winter break was a week away, and people were spending more time socializing as they embraced the holiday spirit. Matthew and I talked about superficial things for a little while before I ‘innocently’ asked him how things were with Jackie. He told me that they were fighting, but trying to work through their issues. They’d been on the rocks since before I met him, so I hadn’t been the catalyst—but I had a feeling my presence had made things worse. Worse for Jackie, anyway. Not worse for me. I was now more determined than ever to take her place.

Another juicy tidbit emerged during that conversation, in which Matthew let his guard down a bit more than he normally did: his father disapproved of his relationship with Jackie. He believed that they were moving too fast, and he accused Matthew of being irresponsible by putting his girlfriend before his studies. I didn’t know how true that claim was—he definitely did study and he told me his grades were all right—but I sensed that there was something more sinister lurking beneath the surface of his father’s words. I couldn’t pinpoint why, but I suspected that he didn’t want his son in a romantic relationship, period.

I didn’t feel comfortable asking something so blunt, so I just sat back and let Matthew talk until he didn’t want to share anything more. This happened more often than I wanted to admit.

Though we were quite close, I was still revealing much more personal information than he was. It was refreshing to speak my mind and actually be taken seriously by someone who could understand complex issues—as much as I liked Francesca, she was still too young to hear about most of my thought processes, and so Matthew became my go-to when I needed to vent. I’d never experienced that kind of validation before; however, it was also unnerving because Matthew hardly ever reciprocated. He asked me tons of questions about myself and responded with meaningful observations, but he rarely wanted to talk about himself. I knew that he’d had a hellacious childhood, and he didn’t want to dwell on it too much; but his behavior seemed more akin to hiding from the past, rather than putting it to rest.

When I hit a wall in his defenses, he’d avoid eye contact until I veered the discussion back to myself, or to a neutral topic. And even then, he would suddenly begin addressing me with a tone of mild annoyance until I found a reason to excuse myself and go do something else. As rare as those moments were, they terrified me, because I worried that I would yet again push someone away by coming on too strong; appearing too enthusiastic at the thrill of simply having a friend. I didn’t want that concept to be a big deal—I hated when _anything_ I did was a big deal—but sometimes, I just couldn’t stop myself from talking too quickly, or smiling too broadly, or laughing too loudly, when someone appeared just as invested in my company as I was invested in theirs. This wasn’t my natural behavior, but a result of years of rejection. 

And though I was determined to unlearn those conditioned responses, I couldn’t help acting that way with Matthew. Being near him heightened all my senses and made my adrenaline pump. Overall, he didn’t mind; he actually seemed to find my excitement endearing, given the fondness in his eyes and his smile, but I still hated that he could reduce me to such a state. 

I also hated that he didn’t seem quite as affected by me as I was by him. He surely found me attractive and fun to be around, but he would not have missed me terribly if we went three days without speaking. I, on the other hand, would have lost my mind.

Though it was clear that I was gradually rubbing off on him, he still unnerved me with his refusal to confide in me. I always knew when he thought he’d shared too much: his shoulders would square up as way of masking his vulnerability, his jaw would set firmly, and he’d stare at the floor to avoid looking at me. As if I couldn’t already see the torment in his eyes. 

And that was his current stance, sitting rigidly on the couch as I asked him about Jackie and his father. I could almost see the tension and fear radiating off of him. I reached out and softly patted his shoulder as he glanced at me briefly and nodded.

“I’m always around if you need a shoulder,” I assured him, in a voice more gentle than I thought I possessed. “My family treats me like shit. I’ll never judge you for anything you tell me. I swear. I know you don’t like to talk about certain things, and I promise I’m not trying to pressure you into anything; I just really think I understand where you’re coming from. I want to be here for you.” 

“I know. You’re—you’re good.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re really intuitive, Alex. You...figure shit out. It’s a little weird sometimes, but it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. You’re fine.”

His face bore a pained expression. It appeared that he wanted to both hide his feelings from the whole world and simultaneously do something reckless.

And he wasn’t the only one who wanted to act on impulse. I suddenly had to grip my skirt to stop myself from reaching out and kissing him full on the mouth. I wanted to grab his hand and pull him into my dorm. I wanted him to lie next to me on my bed, gripping me tightly in a tangle of arms and legs. I wanted to rip off his robes and— 

_Whoa._

I shifted uncomfortably as a sharp pang of desire jolted in between my thighs. I squeezed them together and bit my lip. I couldn’t start thinking things like that, especially with him sitting right next to me—I didn’t know if I could trust myself to keep my hands off his body. 

It wasn’t just physical urges, though. Over the past several weeks, I’d surprised myself with a longing to just hold him. I wanted to fall asleep in his arms every night. I wanted his voice to be the first and last sound I heard each day. I wanted him to pour his heart out to me and tell me everything he was hiding, and I wanted to soothe the ache. Holy Merlin—I wanted to _help_ him. Since when did I ever give a shit about another person? I couldn’t remember ever wanting to help someone without expecting a reward, but there I was. I wanted to make him happy. I wanted him to come to me when he needed support, because I could sense that I identified with him better than anyone ever had.

I also wanted to tell him all about  _my_ issues, more than I was doing already. I wanted to reveal the dusty, filthy corners of my heart without fear of repercussions. I wanted him to validate my concerns while helping me work through the pain. Our problems may not have been exactly the same; but I knew in my gut that we had more in common than we’d ever had with other people, and so we could help each other heal. 

No one else would understand the dark torment inside him...the part of him that wanted to lash out violently when he was angry enough...the part of him that got a sick thrill from breaking yet another naïve girl’s heart after she realized his flirting had only been superficial...the part of him that wanted to use people just for the fuck of it, with no goal in mind, because he wanted to feel powerful. I saw all these parts of him that were invisible to others, and I still wanted him. I still respected him. Instead of viewing him as fucked up, I viewed him as a kindred spirit. He made sense to me. 

I suspected that that fact scared him. It scared me, too, but not enough to run away from our potential. I wanted to run _toward_ him. I wanted him to saturate me until I could barely breathe...more than he was doing already.

I suddenly pictured us living together—either married or dating seriously—somewhere far away. A new state in America or a new country. Somewhere miles outside the trauma of our childhoods, with no connections to anyone from our past. We would start over with new friends, fulfilling jobs, and a stable relationship that would nourish our souls. I nearly doubled over as I realized that I suddenly wanted these things more than anything in the world.

Was this love? Whatever it was, it was dangerous. It could make me lose control. That was unacceptable. I had felt powerless more than enough times in my life, and I never wanted to experience such insidious weakness again. Maybe Matthew liked me romantically and maybe he didn’t; but I couldn’t afford to fall in love until I was sure he felt the same; and even then, I still had extreme reservations on the subject. I was probably too young to fall in love, anyway— Matthew was practically an adult and I wasn’t even fourteen yet. I needed to ignore these strange feelings and focus on my schoolwork instead.

At least, that’s what I told myself. My chest constricted and my eyes widened as Matthew stood up and left the common room without a word.

Why would he do that? Why would he so abruptly end the conversation, when we’d talked about touchy subjects before? I’d just told him that I’d always be there for him! Had I come on too strong? Not strong enough? Was he not convinced of my sincerity? Did he think I couldn't really  _see_ him; and my loyalty was only to a romanticized version of his personality, instead of the  _real_ him? I wasn't like those other girls; I was better than they were! I wasn't gullible! I didn't look for the best in people; I did the opposite! He should have figured that out by now!

No one had ever turned away from me like that before. Sure, I was accustomed to being ignored and rejected, but not by someone who made a point to spend time with me almost daily. And given what Matthew and I had just been discussing, his behavior seemed especially out of place. My stomach clenched as a surge of dread pressed down on me. I needed to know what he was thinking. Now. 

I opened my mouth to call out to him, but my throat was too tight to emit any sound. As I watched him walk away, it felt like he was taking a piece of me with him. 

And I wasn’t sure if I would ever get it back. 

*   *   * 

My head was spinning as I slowly descended the stairs to my dormitory, grateful for its emptiness. There was an unsettling pain in my chest and my skin was on fire, mostly in between my legs. I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on anything until the burning went away. After drawing my curtains closed, I flumped onto my bed and closed my eyes. 

_What is Matthew so worried about?_ I wondered as I idly toyed with my skirt, wishing it was his hand instead of mine. Or maybe his mouth. I shuddered at the thought. My left hand reached up and began stroking my developing breasts, thinking they would fit perfectly in his strong hands. When he wasn’t kissing and licking them. 

_I know he feels something. He wouldn’t look at me the way he does, and his bimbo girlfriend wouldn’t hate me, if we had no potential. She saw our chemistry the day I met him! I’m sure he can tell that I’m crazy about him. Why won’t he make a move?_  

My hand slowly wandered up my thigh and began tracing patterns on the smooth skin. A strangled whimper escaped my throat as I imagined it was Matthew’s hand slipping inside my underwear and groping the moistened flesh, desperately needing me to feel his desire as he plunged his fingers inside me. It wasn’t enough. I needed him with me. I needed to hold him, bury my face in his neck and drown myself in his musky scent, and feel his naked body moving against mine. 

The heavy pain in my heart almost outweighed the throbbing ache in between my legs. It took all my self-control not to scream at the top of my lungs. I settled for whispering his name instead.

I dragged my slick fingers up to the tiny nub above my entrance and began stroking it up and down. I’d done this a few times this past summer out of curiosity, but stopped when the sensation had become too intense. It had scared me. Now, though, there was no such thing as too intense. I couldn’t get enough. I rubbed myself faster and faster, pretending it was Matthew’s tongue and I was gripping his hair to pull him closer. 

And then a colossal wave of electricity shot through me, making my whole body convulse violently. I bit my lip hard to stifle the scream that nearly burst forth, feeling a tight strain in my throat once my hips had finally stopped bucking. I squirmed and curled up in a ball as my head twitched. I was afraid to open my eyes—I didn’t want to be back in reality. I didn’t want to be only thirty feet from my Housemates, struggling to keep quiet when I wanted to scream myself hoarse and lose myself in these new erotic sensations. All I wanted was to be alone with Matthew.

When I finally opened my eyes, they were soaked. Tears streamed onto my pillow as I hugged myself tightly, pretending it was Matthew holding me. It felt like the Earth had stopped spinning. I was aware of nothing but my all-consuming need for this brooding boy, and the searing pain of his absence. It reminded me of the agony my family caused me with their abuse and disrespect, but this felt a thousand times worse: I’d always dreamed of the day I could extricate myself from my family; I never wanted to extricate myself from Matthew.

But why? Why was he so important to me all of a sudden? I’d barely known him for two months and I already wanted to marry him. This sappiness was so unlike me. I’d never cared about anyone this much before. I’d never felt such intense, warm feelings for another person. Was I turning soft?

Normally, the thought of feeling sensitive in any way would repulse me; but now, it didn’t feel so bad. I was floating in a sea of new emotions that I wanted to explore as deeply and as often as possible. Thinking about this boy drowned out the pain of reality better than any escape I’d ever employed: academics, art, writing, singing...nothing compared to this. This boy was like a drug, and I was so addicted. And I fucking loved it. 

I was also terrified. I needed control over myself at all times—why I never partook when someone snuck alcohol into the Slytherin dungeons—and I could tell that my discipline was slipping away, the more time I spent with Matthew. My grades had dropped, and I was now tenth in my class instead of first. Part of me was sad, but I found myself not caring about my schoolwork as much as I used to. My marks were still very high. Why did I have to be the best? The concept suddenly didn’t seem so important anymore. It was hard to concentrate these days, anyway. I couldn’t focus for longer than a few minutes, with my mind always drifting back to Matthew. It was growing harder and harder to exert the necessary energy to ground myself.

Was this lack of control really so bad, though? What was the worst that could happen? My thoughts of Matthew were helping me cope with the misery of reality, anyway. That was a good thing, right? 

Maybe.

There was a small part of me that had been urging me to be careful since the night after I’d met him. I’d dreamed that he’d kidnapped me and tried to molest me, while a disembodied voice rumbled _Be wary of him._ But I’d never put much stock in dreams. I chalked it up to paranoia.

The voice was now screaming that this was all wrong—Matthew was sick, and he was warping me into something grossly unhealthy...I was acting disturbingly out of character...I was losing my grip on reality...he was dangerous for me....

But fuck, when did I ever _not_ gravitate toward danger? I was chaos personified. It seemed that everywhere I went, I left destruction in my wake. I resolved to ignore the voice and continue pursuing Matthew with every fiber of my being. If we were both dangerous, wouldn’t we be perfect together? I never felt afraid around him. Our time together invigorated me—when he was receptive to my attention, that is. 

He saturated me; he consumed me. When he was having a rough day and didn’t want to talk to me, I was miserable; but when he was invested in our interactions (and when I was fantasizing about him), it was the happiest I’d ever felt. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing that pure euphoria. 

But one thing was certain: I couldn’t lie here crying and daydreaming all day long. I had homework to do, and I needed a shower to cool me down after my solo show. After a few more minutes, I slowly peeked through my curtains and was relieved to see the dorm still empty. I grabbed my shower things and tiptoed into the bathroom...where I knew I’d be thinking of my brunette heartthrob once more.

Merlin, this boy was intoxicating. I finally admitted that I was madly in love with him and I didn’t even care.

*   *   *

Most students began packing for the holidays a few days later. The Slytherin common room was always bustling this time of year.

“Are you going home?” I asked Matthew, hoping he would stay behind and we could have some serious alone time. Preferably in my bed.

“Yeah,” he sighed unenthusiastically. 

_Did he not want to go home? Could I convince him to stay here...with me?_

“You don’t sound too thrilled about it.” 

“I’m not. I’d love to stay here, but my dad would never let me.” 

“Why not? Does he miss you too much?”

“No, hun,” Matthew laughed humorlessly. “He’s just really strict. And anyway, my birthday is the day before New Year’s Eve. He always makes a big deal out of it...like I’m _one year closer to being an adult!_ or something like that.” 

“It seems like the celebration is more for his ego than your enjoyment.”

He opened his mouth to respond, and almost glared at me before dropping his eyes to the floor. 

_Ahh, yes. The I’ve-said-too-much look again. When will you ever let your guard down? And what do I have to do to convince you that it’s worth your while? I don’t care how long it takes; I am never giving up on you._

“Well...I’m going to miss you,” I told him. “I always stay here over the holidays, so if you...I dunno...convince your dad to change his mind—”

“He won’t; trust me. And I’ll miss you, too.”

I smiled a lot wider than I wanted to, but my mouth suddenly had a mind of its own. Again. “I was just thinking, um...since your birthday is soon and mine is at the end of January...if you stayed here over winter break, like I am, maybe we could celebrate our birthdays together.”

“Aww, that would be sweet. I wish I could.”

Before I could respond, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders and pulled me into a tight hug. I buried my face in his robes as I wound my arms around his back; he was too tall for me to do much else while his arms rested on my shoulders, but it felt so good. And his scent was overpowering. I was relieved that he was holding me so tightly, or I might have started shaking. He rocked me back and forth for a moment—which must have been a very long moment because, when we finally pulled apart, everyone in the common room was staring at us. Some people were giggling. I bit my lip and looked at the floor.

Matthew shifted awkwardly before walking away without a word.

_What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with you?! You hold me like you never want to let go, and then run away because some people notice? Did I embarrass you or something? You fucking started it!!_  

I turned on my heel and briskly returned to my dorm, feeling confused and humiliated beyond belief.

I didn’t even speak to Matthew again until after winter break. For the remaining days of term that year, I caught glimpses of him in the hallways and at mealtimes; but he was always _just_ out of reach when I tried to go and talk to him. And something inside me knew he was avoiding me on purpose; I simply couldn’t bring myself to admit it. 

Deep down, I knew why he was hiding—literally and figuratively. I knew exactly why I would never date him, why being with him would have healed a shared wound for both of us, and why this lost opportunity would destroy something inside me that I might never be able to repair. 

I wouldn’t allow myself to admit the truth until months later, however, because I knew it would be the most painful realization of my life.


	17. Tom | 2001

I've got desperate desires and unadmirable plans  
My tongue will taste of gin and malicious intent  
Bring you back to the bar  
Get you out of the cold  
A sober, straight face gets you out of your clothes  
And they're scared that we know  
All the crimes they'll commit  
Who they'll kiss before they get home  
I will like awake  
Lie for fun and fake the way I hold you  
Let you fall for every empty word I say  
  
—Brand New ~ “Me vs. Madonna vs. Elvis”  
   
 

Though most of my Death Eaters were behaving normally, one wasn’t all there: Bellatrix. My interest in bedding her had waned over the past year, as all my attention had been on creating the globe and figuring out how to best destroy the Order of the Phoenix. I still desired her, but not with the same degree of frequency. Given the intensity of my work, I needed a break from intimacy.

She took that as a personal offense. She knew I wasn’t a sex-crazed animal like most people—unless I chose to be—but her obsession with me still burned like an out-of-control wildfire. Flattering to a degree, but a bit annoying nonetheless.

The woman was fifty years old. What in Merlin’s name was she doing, lusting after a man who appeared barely twenty? Didn’t she think it a bit odd? It didn’t matter that I was _technically_ about thirty years her senior; who wanted to shag someone who looked young enough to be their child? Only Bellatrix, I presumed. She was a tad unstable—though I did admire her ability to suppress her private torment and complete her assignments successfully. Most people could not achieve that level of discipline, mental illness notwithstanding. This trait was part of the reason I found her attractive. She had developed the fortitude to channel her pain into my cause and morph into a ferocious warrior, while (usually) keeping her logical mind separate. I was proud to have watched her grow more and more skilled at this task over the years, especially given her stint in Azkaban.

She was never quite right after I’d freed her, however, which I suspect had led to an increasing dependence on our physical relationship. My sexual attention was becoming a crutch, as well as an escape from whatever scars Azkaban had left on her psyche. I was both her savior from prison and her escape from herself.

Despite her fanaticism, and my preoccupied mind, I did enjoy her willingness to go to bed with me. She was smart, powerful, and talented—all qualities I admired. And she _was_ quite a pretty lady. Though I could easily suppress my sexual urges enough to be productive, I begrudgingly admitted to myself that I had my moments, like anyone else. Even an invincible godlike man needed a good romp once in a while. If I didn’t have such enormous, important plans taking up most of my energy, I would probably be acting like a chronically horny teenager.

As it often happened whenever Bellatrix and I were alone.

At least our encounters weren’t frequent enough to distract me from my goals—though they probably could do so if I wasn’t careful. I enjoyed the act more than I would ever let on. And Bellatrix was _very_ gifted in the bedroom.

Be that as it may, bedding her was becoming more an act of opportunity and less an impulse toward an attractive woman. I hadn’t been paying much attention to the opposite sex, locking myself inside my mansion all day long, so the only women I saw regularly were those in my ranks. And I wasn’t interested in any of them, save for Bellatrix. I surely could curse and manipulate any young lady I found appealing, but the truth was I just couldn’t be bothered. Bellatrix was always there when I needed release, and that was enough. I certainly wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship or any of that nonsense; the woman worshipped me in more ways than one, and I got off more on her idolatry than her body. And she, like the rest of my followers, hadn’t the faintest idea of how much I was using her.

During one Death Eater meeting in early January, I looked into her mind and discovered her fantasizing about me. Oh, what a surprise. Her daydreams took the usual twists and turns inside her bedroom, but then I saw something that piqued my curiosity: she wanted me to tie her up and render her utterly powerless to my will.

 _Now we’re talking._  

I watched the fantasy play out in her mind for a little while longer, while I decided the best way to test her blind faith in me. Surely, if she wanted to give me complete control over her body, she could also give me control over her mind, thereby transforming abuse from a punishment into a sexual fetish as a coping mechanism.

I wondered how far I could drag her into the abyss of insanity while simultaneously fucking the life out of her. To her, it would be a dream come true; while to me, it would be nothing more than another experiment on the “normal” human mind. Not that there was anything remotely normal about Bellatrix, but her mind was more susceptible to invasion than she needed to believe. 

I decided to conduct my experiment one afternoon when Rodolphus was out of the house for a few hours. I surprised her by Apparating just outside the Lestrange property and then blasting the front door open. Bellatrix was reading a book in the parlor, and yelped at the commotion.

“Who’s there!” she screeched, running into the foyer with her wand extended. And then she jumped back at the sight of me.

“So sorry about your door,” I drawled, before fixing it with a flick of my wand.

“Oh! That’s—that’s quite all right, my Lord. May I ask why you—”

“Rodolphus is out. You know exactly why I’m here.”

She tried to cover her excited gasp as a laugh. I hadn’t sought her intimate company in many months, and the woman could barely contain herself.

“Well, come on then! Don’t just stand there.”

She practically skipped up the stairs. Once in her room, I slammed the door shut and cast locking and silencing spells. I took my time undressing while Bellatrix all but tore her clothes off. She thought it would just be another harmless shag, but I had other plans. Not knowing that I had seen her secret desires through Legilimency, she was more vulnerable and unaware that I was about to break her down. My attraction to her was still waning—but my attraction to power and adoration was still through the roof. I could work with her in this state. 

“Lie down,” I ordered in a monotone. “Put your arms over your head.”

Her cheeks took on a rosy hue. With a flick of my wand, her arms were bound by a rope that attached itself to the bedposts. She gasped as she tested the limits of the harsh material—she would definitely have rope burn before I left.

“You’ve always been such a faithful, obedient servant,” I purred in her ear as I climbed on top of her. “And now, you’re going to show me exactly how faithful and obedient you can be.” 

“Oh, my Lord! Yes! I—” 

I silenced her with a kiss, tightly gripping her face before sliding my hands down to her full breasts. She arched into my caress and moaned.

I was still merely going through the motions at this point. I resumed probing into her mind while slowly kissing my way down her body, willing myself not to laugh at the absurdity of her thoughts. She didn’t even realize I was doing it; she thought I was just gazing adoringly into her eyes because I was madly in love with her. It really was pathetic how easily I could play her. The right words, the perfect touches...and she was putty in my hands, just like her bloodthirsty compatriots. It wasn’t even a challenge.

But I wanted a challenge.

I continued moving lower until my head was in between her legs, which she had spread wide in anticipation. Her mind was not merely on sex, however: she was entertaining thoughts of procreation. She was wondering how her life might have turned out differently, had she wed me instead of Rodolphus all those years ago, and we’d produced a child. Another heir to carry on Salazar Slytherin’s bloodline. Another loyal Death Eater to help increase my power. In other words: anything to keep me coming back to her. 

_Oh, Merlin. Never in a million years...but I can CERTAINLY have some fun with this._

With my mouth hovering over her clenching sex, I grabbed my wand and traced a line across her lower belly. She gasped at the pain, the cause of which had left a dripping red stripe. 

“This is all for me, isn’t it,” I whispered before slowly licking up the blood. “You want to give me this. You always have.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she sighed, gasping in pain and pleasure as I dragged my finger across the wound and then traced light circles around her abdomen. I bit the skin several times before moving lower, trying hard not to laugh at the obsessive thoughts I saw racing through her mind.

_She imagined my requesting a private audience to discuss furthering her responsibilities, during which she would bow to me and then pleasure me. She entertained thoughts of literally kicking Rodolphus out of their home, wearing her finest boots, and then bringing me to live with her. I would take the man’s place as her husband. She wanted to flaunt her new title of Dark Lady to all who would listen, proudly proclaiming her elevated status in and out of Death Eater meetings. She felt smug enough that I had chosen to bed her, considering my attention an honor no matter how roughly I handled her. A masochist to the core, she gravitated toward my sadism. She gave of herself both to satisfy her heart’s longing as well as whatever part of her mind craved the abuse. I saw scenes of her parents brutally beating her and her sisters—and even as a mature adult, she still didn’t know how to stop attracting this type of behavior._

I could do no wrong in her eyes because of this. And now, I wanted to see exactly how much wrong I could do without her protesting.

“If this is all mine, show me!” I growled before clamping my teeth around her clitoris. She screamed and firmly pressed her sex against my face, arching her hips as I shoved two fingers inside her and began pumping brutally. 

“OHH!! Oh, my Lord, I—”

I slapped my left hand over her mouth and gripped her jaw tightly enough to leave bruises while I continued stimulating her. My fingers were bloody when I finally removed them from her quivering entrance. I smeared the sticky red liquid across her inner thighs, and then licked it up before placing unnecessarily rough bites to the soft flesh, leaving bloody teeth marks as I went.

She was struggling now. Struggling with her masochistic nature, and her need to discover my motivations for this new behavior. I was usually detached while shagging her—robotically doing all the things she liked, and only gripping her flesh from lust; not adoration. Sometimes I’d bite her and leave a mark, or grasp her hips hard enough to bruise, but I never took it farther. I hadn’t seen the point of tying her up and making her bleed, when she was already powerless against me in her mind. I always preferred emotional torture over physical.

Now, however, I was testing her pain threshold _and_ her mental faculties—both of which might very well shatter before I was done with her. Part of me wanted to brutalize her to make her stronger, and part of me wanted to see her break.

I would never cease gleaning delight from destroying another person’s mind; the rush was addictive. Could Bellatrix put herself back together again if I emotionally decimated her? Surely, a woman as fierce as she could bounce back, given what she had already endured—but what if she didn’t? I would lose my most capable, loyal soldier. I couldn’t have that. Frustration burned inside my stomach while I tried to figure out which desire was stronger. 

“You want Rodolphus out of the picture?” I asked as I climbed back up her body. “You want me to take his place?”

She nodded as her cheeks burned.

“Say it aloud, Bellatrix!” 

“I—I want you instead of Rodolphus! I don’t love him! We married for political reasons! He was the only Pureblood man who seemed appropriate. And then he went off with that bloody werewolf!” The indignant rage was returning. “Why should I care what he wants? He had a child with another woman!” 

“Everyone knows that, dear. It’s no secret.” I smirked at her shock. “Why do you think I’m here?” 

“You—are you saying you want to take his place?? You want me to leave him?” 

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know—assuming you behave to my satisfaction. Convince me that you are worthy of such an arrangement.”

_I am sure. I am sure it’s never going to happen. I simply enjoy toying with your mind because I am your biggest weakness._

“Oh, Merlin, please! I want—I want only you, my Lord! I am yours to command!”

“You want me to take over you? You want me to turn this powerful, beautiful, ferocious warrior into a helpless animal, just because I can? You know what I’m capable of. Can you still put your faith in me, and trust me to keep you safe, knowing how badly I could damage you?” 

She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes closed. “Y-yes, my Lord. I trust you.”

“But what if I want to?” I jeered. “What if I  _want_ to destroy you? What would happen if I chose to fuck the life out of you and you nearly died right here, tied up and bloody like a slaughtered lamb? Would you still follow me blindly? Would you still obey me, knowing that I could do this to you?” 

I pointed my wand at her ankles and watched more rope wind around them, before lifting her legs into the air and securing them to the bedposts above her arms. The sight was oddly arousing, especially with her juices dripping onto the sheets, and her muscles quivering in anticipation. My manhood twitched.

I’d planned on taking her that instant, but my mouth had begun watering before I could stop it. Whether it was  _her,_ or merely the sight of a pliant female body, I couldn’t discern, but it didn’t matter. I knew what I needed. I slid back down her shaking form and began devouring the treasure in between her thighs. And with her legs bent backwards, almost over her head, I could see every delicious inch of pink flesh. 

I frantically licked her up and down, loving the way her whole body trembled when my tongue lingered on her clitoris. I tugged on her pubic hair, kissed her outer lips, and slid my tongue in and out. Her taste was as addictive as her devotion to me—I couldn’t stop the animalistic growls from escaping my throat while I licked and sucked. Her juices were now flowing freely into my mouth, both from her arousal and my need to press my face as close to her skin as possible. I couldn’t get enough. 

She climaxed five times before I finally lifted my head up. Though I could have continued feasting on her for much longer, the ache in between my legs had grown too heavy to ignore; my entire groin was pulsing. I inched my way back up, kissing and biting the sweaty flesh until we were face to face.

“Look at you now,” I drawled. “Bound, bleeding, and somehow still desperate for my touch. A delectable sight.” 

She winced, suddenly aware of the pain in her bound limbs and mortified at her vulnerability. I couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Ah, yes. Once feisty, now helpless and pliant. My favorite type of prisoner.” I gripped her hair in my hands and plunged into her. “You’re still unquestioningly loyal to me, yes?”

“Ohhh! Oh, my Lord! Yes...I will...do whatever...you ask of me! I promise I will never...fail you! I can handle any...test you...assign to me; I swear it! I promise I’m strong en-nough. I won’t break...I would never betray you like that....” 

“That’s right!” I shouted as I continued slamming into her. After releasing her hair, I squeezed her breasts and pinched her nipples until she squealed. I loved feeling them harden at my touch, and couldn’t resist breaking my rhythm to hungrily suck and bite the dark pink flesh. 

_Merlin, I could become a slave to my own biology if I’m not careful. Especially with a woman as devoted and beautiful as Bellatrix. Maybe I should take a break from her—after I finish here today, of course. There’s no stopping this._

After I’d been pounding into her for several minutes, I leaned down and sank my teeth into her neck, barely aware of the unruly black hair I was ripping from her scalp as pleasure tore through my body. I shuddered and continued pumping into her, determined to drag out the orgasm as long as possible. She didn’t protest. 

We lay together for a moment, motionless and silent, until the sweat and heat became too much and I climbed off of her. I flicked my wand at her limbs to vanish the ropes binding her, and her legs fell back onto the mattress with an unceremonious crash. It would have been amusing if we weren’t completely spent and lost in our own thoughts.

As I stood up, I waved my wand to clean myself—but not her. Another power play. I couldn’t resist. She wanted that, anyway. She staggered to her feet and dressed slowly, not wishing to see me standing in her bedroom without a care in the world, as if we had merely been discussing the weather. Her heart was heavy in her chest and her mind was racing as she tried to make sense of what had just happened—while I remained perfectly calm.

The experiment had worked well. I had seen exactly how loyal Bellatrix was, and I'd released all the tension from the day. My faithful warrior was still as useful as ever. 

“Thank you; that was lovely,” I murmured into her hair when she was fully clothed. Before she could respond, I lightly kissed her ear and Disapparated. I was never the type to linger for pillow talk.

*   *   *

Bellatrix was clearly still in love with me—and it looked like she was still trying to convince me to fall in love with her. That would never happen.

So what if I still wanted her? So what if I admired her intelligence and magical prowess, which almost rivaled her devotion to me? For years, I had enjoyed her company in and out of the bedroom, and still did to an extent, but now she was more of a physical release. That wasn’t the same as _caring._ I didn’t want to marry her and share my power with her. I would certainly be angry if something happened to her—there would be some sense of loss, I could admit—but I surely could replace her in my ranks. She _was_ getting older, anyway. I needed to gather fresh young blood at my table, and I was succeeding in that venture. 

I couldn’t resist observing my recent impact on Bellatrix. I pulled up a view of her in the globe and saw her on her bed, lying on her back as tears silently flooded down her cheeks. Perhaps she regretted allowing me to treat her as roughly as I had. Perhaps she hated herself for needing my approval as much as she did. One would never think her gullible upon seeing her in battle—but the strongest warriors were always the most adept at concealing their weak spots. 

There was loyalty, and then there was obsession. Bellatrix had long since crossed the line, and that was turning me off more than her advancing age. Yes, I still found her attractive, but I had no need of a partner; a wife. I worked alone. What made her think that I should value her beyond her usefulness to me? I’d certainly never viewed anyone else that way. I didn’t want to have to hear about someone’s problems and act like I actually gave a hoot. Bellatrix wanted someone like that.

 _He had a child with another woman!_ she had shouted, complaining about her philandering husband while lying beneath me. 

Ah, yes, the werewolf Mimevas. I wondered what the girl was up to. She would be of age by now—maybe it was time for me to locate the young lycan and recruit her. I’d never shied away from outcasts like werewolves, anyway. Creatures shunned by polite society always wanted their chance to shine and seek revenge. Not that I had _any_ clue what that felt like.

*   *   *

I continued testing Bellatrix’s nerve over the next few months. I bedded her often, but I was more interested in challenging her mental fortitude than finding release. As one of my most talented followers, I couldn’t resist abusing her just to see exactly how far I could push. She began receiving most of my difficult assignments, with the threat of harsher punishments if she were to fail. I wasn’t sure if she would become stronger and therefore more valuable to me; or if she would crumble under the weight of my manipulations and do something brash.

Little did I know that she would somehow manage to accomplish both. The cunning witch always had an extra trick up her sleeve. 

In late March, she finally began to come to terms with the fact that I was losing interest in her. I had continued tying her up and committing all the twisted atrocities she wanted me to commit, but it was only to satisfy my curiosity about her brain’s malleability. She was still less of a release and more of an experiment, like the Malfoys were when I'd lived with them. And being as bright as she was, she eventually sensed that I wasn’t really _there_ when we were in bed.

Seeing no reason to keep pretending that I returned her love, I abruptly stopped bedding her altogether, without any explanation. And so she grew even more determined to woo me. Sometimes I contented myself by simply sitting back and watching her make a fool of herself in her exaggerated words of passion for my cause—and me—but other times, I wanted her to simply take a deep breath and relax. Her fanaticism was less inspiring to me than it once was. And it certainly wasn’t going to make me return to her bed. Unfortunately, my lack of reaction only made her dig in her heels and act more dramatically. 

For instance, I ordered her to kill a high-profile Auror who had been nosing around a few of my recruits at the Ministry. She accomplished the task, but practically threw herself at my feet once the job was done. She approached me after the following meeting and began gushing about how proud she was to have eliminated such a terrible threat to our organization. The others were filing out of the meeting room while she bragged about the rush she’d felt in killing the Auror, and how proud she felt to be given such daunting tasks. I told her, without mincing my words, to bloody calm down. This embarrassed her to such a degree that she positively sulked on her way out of Malfoy Manor.

She thankfully heeded my words and refrained from further trifling outbursts; but I could tell that she was feeling like a balloon waiting to pop.

I often used Legilimency on her during meetings when I didn’t have to pay my other followers rapt attention. In her mind were surges of anger, pain, confusion, and fear over her fate as my bedfellow and my Death Eater. She was overcompensating for her turbulent feelings for me by exaggerating her enthusiasm for her responsibilities, hoping I might be dense enough to believe her performance of mental stability. I didn’t have to be a Legilimens to see her turmoil, as she was a much easier study than she realized—highly competent, yes, but also a quick read. The Legilimency was merely a perk. 

Her inner monologue amused me as much as it devastated her. With renditions of _“Why doesn’t he shag me anymore? Have I done something to turn him off?”_ peppered with _“Is it over? Has he found another witch to bed?”_ and _“What do I have to do to convince him to come back?”_ her deliberations knew no end. I’d never explicitly told her our time together was over; I didn’t even know if it was. I hadn’t decided yet. I had no inclination to think one way or the other, having more important tasks that required my focus. And I certainly didn’t care enough to tell her what to do with her heart—if she wanted to move on, fine. If she wanted to continue waiting for me to drop by every so often, that was fine as well.

She chose the latter.

As the year progressed, it appeared that, as heartbroken as she was, she’d reluctantly decided to try and find some ways to distract herself from her pining. I wondered if Rodolphus had given her a talking-to as well, seeing as they now barely acknowledged each other during meetings. The state of their marriage didn’t concern me; Bellatrix still had a good head on her shoulders. I trusted her to keep herself in line. I stopped paying her as much attention and resumed observing all my followers equally. With so much going on, I couldn’t afford to lose my focus.

*   *   *

It was two weeks before the end of the school year. On that perfectly ordinary morning, I read a lengthy letter from Margo describing her study group’s activities, their worries about their upcoming exams, and Lulu’s preparation for retaking her NEWTs. It appeared that, though still wildly immature, Lulu was at least studying diligently every day. Margo felt confident that her best friend would pass her exams and finally enter the world as a successful adult witch.

As long as she could become a worthy Death Eater, I didn’t care if she was a bit delayed in finishing her schooling. I knew Margo would keep me updated in any event. 

After placing her letter with all the others, I spent the afternoon reading in my library, intent on having a relaxing day. And it _was_ relaxing, until Bellatrix touched her Dark Mark and called me to Malfoy Manor that evening.

I found her standing in the foyer with a barely-coherent Narcissa. 

“He’s dead, my Lord! I killed him for you!” Bellatrix announced proudly.

“Who? Who did you kill?”

“Dumbledore!”

“WHAT?! Bellatrix, if this is your idea of a joke—” 

“No, no, my Lord! I promise you! I swear it on my life!”

“I’ll hold you to that,” I snapped. “How did you accomplish this?”

I was torn between triumph and hesitation until I looked into her thoughts. _Those better not be images she planted in her mind. Let’s see if her story sticks._

Her story was that she had entered Hogwarts via the Vanishing Cabinet the Malfoys had purchased from Borgin & Burkes two years prior. She cast a Disillusionment charm on herself upon arriving at the school, and began slinking through the halls to find Dumbledore. She located him on his way to the Great Hall for dinner and thought she had a clear shot—except for the fact that he could sense an enemy’s presence. He brandished his wand and alerted everyone in the vicinity by shouting and casting spells to remove any charms of concealment.

Bellatrix was out in the open.

A ferocious battle ensued, with students and teachers joining in and fighting for either side. Bellatrix killed Dumbledore when he was momentarily distracted by an older Slytherin student who appeared to be fighting against him, but trying to act like he was allied with the Headmaster. The battle was still raging when Bellatrix cast another Disillusionment charm on herself and snuck out of the castle through one of its secret passageways. By this time, the Great Hall was in ruins.

And my thoughts had ground to a screeching halt.

“I’m sure they’ll be discussing it in _The Daily Prophet_ tomorrow,” she breathed excitedly. “We can find out what happened at Hogwarts after I left! It’ll be—”

“Bellatrix, hush. And come with me.” I strode over to her, grabbed her arm, and Disapparated.

I brought her back to her own home, where Rodolphus was drinking tea in the parlor. He immediately stood up when we entered the house.

“What brings you here, my Lord?” he asked, bowing his head.

“Has your lovely wife not told you of her recent accomplishment?”

“Wh—what accomplishment?” he stammered, eyeing Bellatrix suspiciously.

“I killed Dumbledore!”

“You _what?!”_

“It’s true,” she bragged. “The Dark Lord has wanted the job done since Draco failed, and I knew I’d be the best person to do it!” 

“Did you assign her this task, my Lord?”

“No, I did not. I am as surprised as you are.” 

Rodolphus looked incredulously at his wife. “That’s quite a mission to undertake on a whim, you know.” 

“It was _not_ on a whim! I planned it for _ages,_ and I used Occlumency during meetings to shield that part of my mind! I normally don’t care if the D—if anyone sees my thoughts, as I am loyal, but this was a special project and I needed to take precautions. I didn’t want to get anyone else tangled up in the event!” 

_Well, that explains a lot._

Bellatrix glanced at me after admitting her secret, eager to see my reaction. 

“Do go on,” I drawled, folding my arms.

 _“_ You were lucky not to be captured or killed yourself,” Rodolphus remarked as Bellatrix opened her mouth to speak. 

“Just because I didn’t tell everyone doesn’t mean it was a mere flight of fancy! I am not some impulsive child; I plotted this meticulously for _months!_ Don’t you patronize me, Rodolphus!” 

“Why _did_ you do it then?” 

“I—I knew the Dark Lord wanted it done! Everyone knew that Draco didn’t have the stomach. I was helping!” 

That was only a half-truth. Based on her initial hesitancy, I knew that even before looking into her mind—and what I saw there shocked me even more:  _she did it to get back into bed with me._ I wasn’t sure if I should’ve been disturbed or amazed.

“All right, you know what, Bellatrix? I don’t want to deal with this petty bickering today. I’m going for a walk. Don’t let me interfere with our Master praising you.” He sneered at her. “Again.”

 _Hmm, what could he POSSIBLY be implying? We’ll likely never know!_  

Rodolphus stalked out of the house and slammed the door, leaving me alone with Bellatrix. She looked at me expectantly from under her long eyelashes, and then bowed her head when she saw my hard glare. In one swift move, I had her backed up against the wall. I was close enough to kiss her, but chose not to.

“Your dear husband was right,” I scolded, digging my hands into her shoulders. “You could have gotten yourself killed. What use would you be to me as a corpse?!”

“I knew that it—I knew it would work because I’d been planning it! I remembered where Draco had failed and I vowed to see the task through! I knew you wanted it done, and I thought—”

“Stop with these half-truths, Bellatrix. You did it to impress me. Don’t deny it.”

Her cheeks took on a rosy hue. “Well... _are_ you impressed?” she asked in a small voice. Her eyebrows were raised, her lips turned upward just a bit.

I suddenly imagined a six-year-old Bellatrix begging her father for the approval he would never give her. Tough old Cygnus Black would never have shown interest in his daughters unless his life had depended on it. 

“Yes, Bella, I will admit that I admire your success in this endeavor,” I replied, giving her a dashing smile that I knew would make her knees quiver. I absentmindedly twirled a lock of her curly hair around my finger. “Thank you for your devotion. I find your competence inspiring. Don’t stop.”

“I won’t, my Lord! Thank you; I am so proud to have finally killed our enemy.”

“You should be,” I purred. I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her soundly before Disapparating.

*   *   * 

My greatest adversary was dead. I could finally utter those words outside of fantasies. 

Even though Bellatrix’s motivation for killing Dumbledore had been utterly ridiculous, I couldn’t deny the immense relief and euphoria that now coursed through my veins. A path had been cleared for me. A barricade to my ultimate success had been torn down.

Dumbledore’s ability to read people had made me anxious since my Hogwarts days, as nothing slipped passed him. He had sensed every detail that passed under his crooked nose and he had all but spied on me as a student. He’d been the one person I couldn’t fool; the one person who stood in my way. It was only logical that I’d wanted to eliminate him. Though I could charm my way out of pretty much anything, I had no problem resorting to force when that didn’t work, and craving Dumbledore’s death had been a prime example. I felt infinitely more relaxed with him gone.

Meanwhile, Hogwarts was in mourning. The week following Dumbledore’s murder, _The Daily Prophet_ ran several special editions dedicated to eulogies, reports on the battle Bellatrix had brought to Hogwarts, and plans for the school to rebuild. They insisted that her entryway into the school had been destroyed—they couldn’t talk about the Room of Requirement publicly, but I surmised that the Vanishing Cabinet in there no longer existed. The secret of its existence must have leaked somehow.

I smirked as I read all of these newspaper articles—my darling Bella had caused quite a stir by the time she’d vacated the castle grounds. It took a full week to fully restore the Great Hall; and by then, final exams were underway. Some students sheepishly admitted to hoping exams would be cancelled in the wake of their Headmaster’s death—Lulu included, I was sure—but they knew it was a fruitless desire. 

McGonagall was promptly promoted to Headmistress. “Headmasters and Headmistresses come and go over the years,” she had told her students and the _Prophet,_ “and life must go on. We must not let a tragedy bring us to our knees and stop us from living. We are stronger than that. We cannot let fear win.” So, of course, her first decision as Headmistress was to ensure that her students would complete the school year successfully. Homework and exams would not slip through the cracks. 

Speaking of exams, Margo excitedly wrote home to say that Lulu had finally passed her NEWTs. Her scores were far from admirable, but at least she now had the credentials to graduate from Hogwarts and seek employment. Margo and Narcissa shared bits and pieces of news with me throughout the summer—Lulu was not looking for work just yet, as her parents wanted her to ‘take some time for herself’ and ‘sort out her priorities’ before striking out on her own. Oh, what a shock. They rationalized this coddling by reminding Lulu that they had punished her the summer before by not allowing her to see her friends. Since she had _clearly_ learned from her mistakes and rectified her academic disaster, they believed her to be mature enough to escape further admonishment.

What amused me the most was a letter from Narcissa that arrived in late June, telling me that the Gilmores had hired someone to come to their home and tutor Lulu in proper etiquette. This training surpassed basic manners and delved more into subjects like professional conduct, appropriate behavior at a dinner party, and practice thinking before speaking. I wasn’t sure if such an educational venture would work on someone like Lulu, but her parents were convinced. 

I would be the judge of her maturity later on. 

*   *   *

The British Wizarding world at large may have all but stopped functioning upon Dumbledore’s death, but the Order of the Phoenix hardly seemed to notice. They continued meeting every couple of weeks, relentlessly planning the best way to take down my growing regime. It was a pity that, though I could see them in the globe, I could not locate their headquarters because their protective enchantments were too powerful; the view in the globe always blurred when someone approached the building, and only came back into focus once the person was inside.

When I was ready to begin eliminating the Order, I would need to know everyone’s exact locations and how well these areas were protected. I would have to Apparate with sharp precision and not a second’s hesitation—something I could not do until I knew more about all the places the Order members frequented, and for how long. 

I decided to watch them all more closely in order to learn their rhythms and routines. Only then would I be knowledgeable enough to catch them unawares. This task was often frightfully boring, but a necessary chore to further enhance my success.

Severus was certainly helping me while working as a double agent, but that which I discovered from watching the Order myself proved infinitely more useful. I learned about all the members’ personalities, their professions, and their daily habits.

Remus and Sirius were Aurors now. Since Sirius had received a full pardon from the Ministry, with Remus’s help, he didn’t have to struggle to seek employment. He had long since vowed to do everything he could to stop me, so of course the Aurors readily accepted him and his shapeshifting best friend. Arthur Weasley had considered joining them, but his wife wouldn’t allow it. A fiercely nurturing woman, Molly would not permit her husband to endanger himself any more than he already was by simply being in the Order. His job in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office was stressful enough, she often reminded him.

I figured Molly had joined the Order simply to protect what was left of her family. She didn’t work, so there wasn’t much else the woman could do with her time. Her remaining time, anyway. The whole family bore the label Blood Traitor like an albatross. A fitting punishment for such Muggle-loving fools. 

Moody had also come out of Auror retirement, and often partnered with Tonks on missions. Tonks and Remus had married recently, and their bosses didn’t want them working together for fear that their bond would distract them. They accepted this arrangement, understanding the higher purpose they served. 

Hermione desperately wanted to become an Auror as well, but lacked the experience necessary and so she remained a secretary. Her bosses promised her that she would attain a higher-level position over time, but she simply wasn’t ready for that yet. And perhaps she never would be, assuming I got to her first. I didn’t want to be watching these people for the next five bloody years before I was finally able to kill them. 

Neville and Luna were a curious pair. As magizoologists, they appeared unassuming in public, while concealing the rage they felt over my growing power. They became friendly with Bill, the eldest Weasley son, and his wife Fleur—the last-place champion from the Triwizard Tournament in 1994. Though their support for the resistance was well-known, the couple still faced ostracism because Bill was a werewolf. Fenrir Greyback had bitten him years earlier, during my first rise, and Bill grew determined to one day repay the favor. Luna, with her affection for all things different, embraced the embittered man with open arms.

Since Charlie Weasley was keeping his feet planted firmly on the ground in Romania, and his younger brother Percy had been disowned, the only other Weasleys worth watching were the twins Fred and George. The boys often riled up their comrades during Order meetings, trying to lighten the mood with pranks—rather like Barty Crouch Jr.—but these tricks were rarely received well. The boys were still planning to turn their mischief into a career, and often used their fellow Order members as test subjects. They spent their free time experimenting with the prank-worthiness of objects magical and Muggle alike.

Though everyone in the Order understood the boys’ good faith, tensions were too high for any of them to appreciate the jokes. Molly attempted to cover for her sons, using phrases such as “Can you really blame them?” and “What else do we have to laugh about these days?” But she was about the only person with these views. I wondered if the twins would ever bring their pranks into battle one day—surely, enchanted Silly String would distract a Death Eater long enough to capture him, no? Even I chuckled at the mental image. Very briefly, of course.

In addition to memorizing the Order members’ habits, I also had to assess their strengths and weaknesses—learning their plans wasn’t nearly enough for me to take them down. And I had found that strengths could often be twisted into weaknesses with the proper tactics. 

For example, Remus and Sirius were both hyper-vigilant individuals—a trait that served them well as Aurors—and yet they had a tendency to grew too focused on particularly daunting tasks, and miss crucial details in the larger picture. In order to kill them, I would need to bombard them with distractions startling enough that they wouldn’t know which threat to fight first. 

Moody shared their intense awareness, coupled with a thick layer of paranoia that often disturbed his comrades. His methods for discovering impostors (whom never even existed) were dramatic enough to scare everyone in the room—intrusive spells, questions barked at an individual as he pinned them to the wall, and other such theatrics. Perhaps all I’d have to do to unravel him would be to modify the memory of a junior Order member to make them spout off all of Moody’s worst fears. He’d be distracted by seeking a nonexistent threat, and I could easily ambush him in such a state. 

Neville and Luna were uncommonly kind and caring. This served them well in their professions and interpersonal relationships, but it also meant that they were more easily stepped on. They often struggled to find the balance between compassion and martyrdom. I figured the best way to eliminate them would be to capture someone they loved, someone whose existence didn’t bother me in the slightest, after which they would offer themselves as sacrifices in exchange. They’d feel at peace with dying to protect someone else. I suspected that Molly, Arthur, and Hermione would behave similarly. 

Most of the other Order members were _not_ content to die, however. They knew that, realistically, all of them surviving the next several years would be a miracle; but they still did not wish to perish before making enough of an impact on the world. And that was too bad, considering my confidence that I would eliminate the lot of them within the next year. Dumbledore’s death had been only their first major defeat. More blows were on the way. The Order could not prepare themselves for all the surprises I would soon spring on them.

*   *   *

Dumbledore’s death was not the only scandal of the season. Standing before the globe one late August afternoon, I began watching a meeting of the Order and observed a most shocking exchange.

~ 

 _“Do you think he knows?” Remus asked Severus._

_“He suspects nothing. I’m sure of it.”_

_“But you fought for the Headmaster when Bellatrix snuck into Hogwarts! She saw you! She must have told him afterwards. And with Dumbledore dead—”_

_“The Dark Lord does not suspect that my loyalties lie here. He has no idea what made me turn spy for Dumbledore.”_

_“And what was that?” demanded Sirius. “You know I’ve always had a hard time trusting you. If anyone deserves to understand your motivations, it’s me.”_

_“Because he—” Severus couldn’t finish his sentence. He appeared to be grappling with a lifelong struggle he’d shared with no one. After a long silence, he stood up and strode toward the window to stare dejectedly at the street below._

_“Severus, no one here is against you,” insisted Tonks in a soothing voice. “We’re all fighting for the same cause. If you could just tell us what’s on your mind....”_

_“You know,” Sirius drawled, “this reminds me of that time at Hogwarts when James and I unseated his pants. He stormed off just like he’s doing now. He’d been talking to Lily and—”_

_“DON’T bring Lily into this!!!”_

_“Don’t you scream at us like a gaggle of misbehaving students!” barked Mad-Eye._

_Everyone’s jaws hit the floor._

_“Ahh, so_ that’s  _what this is all about!” Sirius jeered. “You were in love with her, weren’t you, Sev?”_

_“Sirius, don’t!” scolded Luna, lightly touching the man’s arm. “Whatever issues you had as boys, you need to put that aside. None of that matters anymore. As Tonks just said, we’re all fighting for the same cause. You need to get over your petty disagreements. This is a matter of life or death now.”_

_“Luna’s right,” added Hermione. “Severus, we do need to understand your motivations for being here. Given the current political climate, we must be more open with each other than ever. We cannot afford to keep secrets.”_

_The others were silent until Severus finally broke, slumping back into his chair a few tense minutes later._

_“Yes,” he croaked, “I was in love with her. Always. From the time we were small children. I begged the Dark Lord to spare her when he announced that he would kill her son, but he didn’t because she refused to step aside. That was why I became a double agent; it was the only way for me to avenge Lily’s death.”_

~

I listened in dumbfounded silence as Severus revealed the details to his comrades, hastily wiping his eyes every few minutes and refusing to look at anyone.

Apparently, he and Lily had grown up together, becoming best friends years before beginning their Hogwarts education. They drifted apart slightly after being sorted into different Houses, and more so when Lily’s Gryffindor friends began bullying him. In an effort to impress her, Severus started associating with students who would later become Death Eaters—but this action had the opposite effect, and he lost Lily’s friendship. He remained madly in love with her, however, even after her death. All these years later, he was still mourning. He was still fighting for her legacy. 

A fool for love just like the rest of them. 

After years of pondering his motivations for being a double agent, I finally had my answer. Rage and adrenaline flooded my veins as I stormed through my house, remembering all the times Severus had looked me in the eye and shamelessly lied to me. And I had believed his words—sometimes barely, but I had believed him all the same. He had been one of my most loyal followers. I wasn’t sure what infuriated me more: his betrayal or the fact that I had fallen for it. 

At least I knew the truth now. Better late than never.

Severus sat in the chair closest to mine at the following Death Eater meeting. How fitting, seeing as it would be his last. I conducted the meeting as if everything were normal, not paying anyone special attention until about halfway through—when I began a lengthy speech about traitors in my ranks, and how they must pay for their disloyalty. I referenced a few long-dead individuals, like Mulciber and the Carrows, all while sneaking glances at Severus to see how he was reacting. As usual, he remained the stoic, detached individual he always made himself out to be. But I now knew what lay beneath that disguise. And I was going to destroy him with it.

When I dismissed my followers at the end of the meeting, I stomped on Severus's foot to hold him in place. His eyes widened as I stared him down, daring him to struggle. I held his gaze with a sneer, and waited until the room had emptied before releasing his foot. 

“My Lord?” he asked quietly, trying to hide his pain. 

“What did you think of my speech?” I inquired, leaning back and resting my arms on my chair.

“I—I’m not sure what you mean, my Lord. Forgive me.”

“Oh, Severus, the time for me to forgive you is long gone. And I’m sure dear Lily would feel the same, were she alive. Pity I had to kill her.”

Severus shot to his feet. “My Lord, what are you—”

I stood and slapped him hard across the face. “Did you think you could fool me forever?! Did you believe your Occlumency skills would always protect you? You can hide nothing from me! Lord Voldemort always knows!” 

He reached up to rub his cheek, and then thought better of it. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“You strut about like you’re in control of every situation you encounter. You pretend nothing affects you—but I know your heart is not the hardened stone you’d like us all to think it is. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” 

“My Lord, I don’t—”

_“Crucio.”_

He fell to the floor with a shriek, screaming louder than I’d ever have thought possible. Nagini must have found the spectacle amusing, since she began slithering over and around Severus as he writhed in agony. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so furious. 

“Stop pretending you don’t know why I’m angry, Severus! You are a TRAITOR!” I bellowed after lifting the curse. “You renounced your loyalty to me in 1981, simply because I killed the woman you wanted to shag like a bitch in heat! I offered to spare her, you know, as per _your request,_ as long as she stepped back and allowed me access to Harry! It was _her_ fault that I killed her; she wouldn’t step aside! She was a stupid girl! And you are a fool for allowing your heart to dictate your behavior! Dumbledore may have forgiven you your transgressions, but I do not forgive! You _know_ this!”

“My Lord—” 

“ _Secca! Secca! Secca!_ ” I growled as the spell slashed angry red gashes all over his face.

He tried to stand, but Nagini wasn’t done tormenting him. So useful, she was. She sank her teeth into his robes and dragged him forward a few feet before the fabric ripped. Then, lunging forward once more, she bit his leg repeatedly until flesh began to detach from bone. Ignoring his screams, I realized I could finally probe into his mind. His Occlumency skills didn’t matter now—no one could shield their mind in such a state.

I explored his thoughts for several minutes, uncovering all the secrets he’d kept hidden from me for decades:

_Spending time with Lily when they were children..._

_Being bullied by James Potter and his friends..._

_Joining the Death Eaters to try and impress Lily, and feeling utterly heartbroken when she rejected his friendship..._

_Begging Dumbledore to save the Potters from me when he realized they were marked for death..._

_Finding their bodies and collapsing in baby Harry’s bedroom, clinging to Lily’s corpse as he screamed and cried and vowed to avenge her family..._

_Agreeing to teach Potions at Hogwarts, purely as a cover for his role as a double agent, and subsequently battling his conflicting feelings as he watched Harry grow for two years before I killed him..._

_His wounded pride as he realized that, had he treated Lily better when they were children, their lives would have turned out much differently—maybe he would have even married her and that prophecy about Harry and me would never have come to be! And I could have been long dead!_

_Regret...pain...anger...loss...._

I’d seen all I needed to see. Quite informative. 

 _“That’s enough, dear,”_ I hissed at Nagini after she bit his leg hard enough to nearly amputate it, eliciting a final yelp. She reluctantly withdrew and slithered closer to me. 

I allowed the traitor to stagger to his feet, holding onto the edge of my chair as his wounded leg could no longer hold him. Maybe he would make a case for himself, and maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, he was not leaving this room alive.

“Any famous last words?” I drawled as I twirled my wand in my fingers. Nagini slithered over to Severus once more and began weaving in between his ankles, tangling his robes. Staggering to keep himself upright, he nearly fell back to the ground—such a stark contrast to his usual grace and poise.

“Would any words make a difference to you now?”

“No, but I’d love to see you try and change that. All my traitors weep and beg for mercy before I kill them. You’re not special. I thought you were—I’ll give you that. You were one of my finest Death Eaters, but now you must pay for your betrayal.” 

“If you ever had loved—”

“I don’t waste my time with such foolish nonsense. Love accomplishes nothing. Look where it got _you!_ I will never succumb to petty weaknesses of the heart. Love does not matter—there is only power in this world, and those strong enough to seize it. Your heart is what killed you, Severus.” 

His face twisted in fierce vitriol. He opened his mouth to speak, but I was out of patience. I raised my wand once again and growled, _“Avada Kedavra.”_

His body hit the floor, with his face forever frozen in hatred. How fitting.

I summoned Bellatrix to dispose of the body outside Diagon Alley, where it would be found easily. She may have been losing my interest in the bedroom, but she was still one of my most trusted followers and I required her loyalty for this delicate task. Severus had not been a random traitor; he was a special case. 

“My Lord!” she gasped upon entering the room and seeing the corpse. “Merlin, what happened? Is he—” 

“He is dead. A long-overdue punishment. He’s been deceiving us since 1981.”

“What?!” 

“He was in love with Harry Potter’s mother. Did you know?” 

“Lily Evans?! That stupid ginger Gryffindor bitch?”

“The same. Severus has been fighting to avenge her death since the day I disappeared. I wish I could resurrect him and kill him ten more times for the depth of his betrayal!” 

Though satisfied from my kill, I was still shaking with rage. I was stalking around the room, only occasionally glancing at Bellatrix while I continued ranting for a steady ten minutes. Dutiful as ever, she remained quiet as I vented—though her alarm was evident. Her limbs were stiff, her shoulders raised, her eyes wide. She was both flattered that I was allowing her to see me in this state, and terrified that I would take out my fury on her. Which I almost did.

She tried to hide the brief flash of exasperation on her face, but her screaming thoughts gave her away: _I TOLD you! I KNEW he was one of them! Damn it, I tried to show you that he was a liar! So many times! Oh, my Lord, why didn’t you listen to me?! You know I always have your best interests at heart!_

“Do _not_ test me, Bellatrix!” I scolded, storming back over to her. “I am not in the mood for leniency! Are you _asking_ to be tortured?!” 

“No, my Lord. If—if that is your wish, I will not defy you. I wasn’t trying to—” Her shoulders slumped and she dropped her gaze to the floor. “I apologize.”

Standing an arm’s length from her, I reached out and lifted her chin. We stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, neither of us speaking. I was trying to collect my thoughts while she was trying to silence hers. To no avail. 

_Merlin, I love that hard stare—does he still want me? Will he shag me as a way of diffusing his rage? Is he venting to me because he feels safe with me, or he simply trusts me not to repeat what he’s told me? Can I convince him to open up to me more often? I’d give anything for him to come to me when he needs to let off steam...I could show him that it’s all right; I’ll always be here for him in any way he needs...._

From the corner of my eye, I saw her hand twitch as she restrained herself from reaching out and pulling me close to kiss me. Her eyes were a bit moist. And my temper was more than a bit spiked. 

“You are here to complete an assignment; nothing more. Don’t you _dare_ use it as an excuse to condescend to me, even inside your head. If you even _think_ the words ‘I told you so’ one more time, I will torture you, no matter how much you butter up your words with declarations of emotional attachment. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord. That wasn’t my inten—I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m so sorry.”

“Good. Now remove the body like I told you to do. No dawdling.”

I reminded her to roll up Snape’s left sleeve to expose his Dark Mark— _The vigilante Death Eater killer strikes again! the Prophet would read—_ but otherwise leave his corpse untouched. She obeyed. 

At least I could still count on her to follow orders; as lovesick and overzealous as she was, she was the last person who would ever betray me. I felt lucky to have a follower as devoted as she. 

*   *   *

Margo began her seventh year at Hogwarts shortly after I killed Severus. She wasn’t particularly sad about his death, but she also wasn’t sure what to expect with McGonagall as Headmistress. Though McGonagall seemed to favor Gryffindor as much as Dumbledore had, she appeared to have more bias against Slytherins than her predecessor. Margo thought it best to stay out of trouble and not do anything particularly memorable—at least, outside of Slughorn’s classroom. The Malfoy girl was relieved to see one of her favorite professors reinstated. Sofia aligned with Margo’s way of thinking, and spent lots of time researching mental illnesses when she wasn’t studying.

Chicky and Sheena had other ideas—they were now growing quite serious about opening up their own joke shop, and continually landed in detention for taking pranks too far. Every time they visited Hogsmeade, they spent most of their time inside Zonko’s. The owners, who now expected the girls’ company each weekend and liked them well enough, had finally begun selling some of their products to test their marketability. Margo was quite excited for her friends—more so when they promised to slip her free gifts if they became successful.

The Weasley twins, who were now the Zonko’s store managers, were impressed with the girls’ skills, but reminded them that they still had work to do if they wanted to be successful in the industry. The boys were always a tad apprehensive around their potential coworkers, knowing that the girls had the ability (and the money) to possibly outshine them one day.

They had no reason to worry about being outshined, however—within the year, they would likely be dead. With Dumbledore gone, my biggest goal was now finding and murdering everyone in the Order of the Phoenix. The owners of Zonko’s would surely be relieved to have two dedicated young people to replace the ginger boys when the time came.

And who would ever suspect people working in such a lighthearted industry of being Death Eaters? If Chicky and Sheena joined my ranks, they would be more likely to earn people’s trust than, say, upper-crust Ministry officials who may or may not favor Purebloods. I could see these two becoming invaluable servants one day soon. 

The pranksters may have had jobs all but lined up for them, but Lulu was still having difficulties. She applied for a few positions at the Ministry and assumed she would be hired, what with her family’s wealth and her parents’ professional success, but she received no job offers. Despite her financial standing, she was still not mature enough to work in a governmental office. Her interviewers encouraged her to find work elsewhere and then try back in a few years, so she finally took a position at Madam Malkin’s robe shop. I had a feeling that, after working at such a mundane job, she would eventually mature—even if her only motivation was the thought of deserving a more respectable workplace. I’d keep an eye on her either way.

*   *   * 

This year had been monumental. My most trusted follower had murdered my strongest adversary, I had eliminated my greatest traitor, and I now had my eye on a handful of potential new recruits—all with interesting personalities that could bring new elements to my table. The coming year was shaping up to be even more meaningful than this last one, and I couldn’t wait to see how future events would unfold.


	18. Alex | Second Half of Year 4 (2002)

I wanna hold you high and steal your pain  
‘Cause I’m broken when I’m open  
And I don’t feel like I am strong enough  
‘Cause I’m broken when I’m lonesome  
And I don’t feel right when you’re gone away  
   
—Seether ~ “Broken”  
  

I spent winter break doing almost nothing but fantasizing about Matthew. I continued my Dark magic research, I wrote in my journal, and I went for walks around the school grounds, but Matthew was always in the front of my mind. Half the time I spent thinking about him, I grinned like a Cornish pixie on a cheering charm; and the other half I spent sprawled out on my bed, sobbing violently. 

I needed my thoughts of him like I needed air, but I also needed to know why he kept pulling me in and then pushing me away. If he was lonely, why would he so profoundly fear a connection with someone who actually understood him? 

And I needed someone, too, damn it! I had told him things about my family and my inner workings that I’d never shared with anyone, and he’d seemed fascinated. He’d never judged me or assumed I was posturing; he took me seriously and validated my emotions. No one older than I had ever done that before.

When I was with him, and he wasn’t afraid of...whatever he was afraid of, I felt like I belonged. I felt respected. I felt cared for. There were moments when I could almost taste our closeness. 

And Merlin, did I want to. My mouth watered at the thought.

I suspected that his behavior had something to do with his father. A sickening, foreboding feeling burned in my stomach every time Matthew discussed the man. I didn’t know how the two interacted, but I sensed that his father was trying to control him to compensate for a lack of control in his own life—rather like the way my parents treated me. 

But why on Earth would he not want his only son to have a girlfriend? Wouldn’t he want the boy to be happy? That was what all parents were supposed to want. It made no sense.

These thoughts whirred through my mind while I wandered through the library each day. In addition to the Dark Arts, I also began reading books on psychology, in an effort to find answers to my questions about Matthew. What psychological disorders or traumas would turn someone into a glutton for punishment? There were many, apparently. My head swam as I all but inhaled thick books on the subject.

I had many theories brewing by the time winter break ended, but I was still no closer to pinpointing a definitive origin of Matthew’s behavior. As I returned a library book discussing the effects of child neglect, a funny feeling swelled in my stomach—I was close to the answer, but it was just out of reach. And as much as I’d wished I could have found the truth in books, I knew deep down that my only hope of closure resided inside the person who had driven me to this point.

There was something the boy wasn’t telling me. Something monumental. And I would stop at nothing to find out what it was. 

*   *   *

I caught up with Matthew a week after term resumed. He’d been impossible to find before then, and I’d all but clawed my skin off in anticipation while observing him insulated inside the cushion of busyness. I hadn’t even been able to say hello to him in the hallway. How hectic could his schedule possibly have been, right after the holidays? No one else was running around like a rat in a maze. He really needed to chill out. 

Now, at least, I had finally found him. It was after dinner, when most people were relaxing. He was sitting on a couch in the Slytherin common room, positively brooding—not that such was an uncommon event, but tonight he looked particularly morose. A jolt of longing shot through me as soon as I caught sight of him. I inhaled slowly, knowing it would not do to appear shaky and short of breath, desperate for his company. 

“Hey! What’s got you down?” I asked, squeezing his shoulder as I sat down beside him. 

“Jackie broke up with me,” he mumbled.

“Why? Was it all the fighting, or did something specific happen?” _Don’t smile. Look concerned. Relax your facial muscles. Eyes wide. You know how this works._

“She, uh...” he leaned in and whispered in my ear, “She caught me plagiarizing on a History of Magic essay.”

I giggled. I couldn’t help it. Also, I loved feeling his face that close to mine. _This_ was the Matthew I knew, underneath all the bullshit: playful, flirtatious, quietly affectionate...Merlin, I’d missed this. Warmth swelled in my belly and radiated outward.

Perhaps his dismissal of me before winter break had been an isolated incident, and he was now back to normal? Everyone acted out of character sometimes; I supposed I should have given him a break instead of working myself up for nothing. Maybe I’d been too hard on him. I often acted out at home when my family treated me like shit, and no one ever cut  _me_ any slack. Perhaps this was my chance to pay it forward. 

“Well...did you get caught?” I drawled, trying to mask my relief that his moody spell was over. 

“No—”

“So then, what’s the problem? Why’s she getting her wand in a knot?”

“She said that it’s unethical and she can’t be with someone so sneaky and dishonest.”

I giggled again. “But did she even _realize_ you were a Slytherin?” _I probably should have said ‘I’m sorry she dumped you.’ Too late now, I guess._  

Matthew giggled as well. I breathed a sigh of relief, now having no reason to worry about my gaffe.

“Yeah, she knew; I think she may have been trying to save me or something. She said she liked _bad boys_ or whatever it was, but—”

“She talked the talk but couldn’t walk the walk.”

“Right.” 

“Are you—are you okay?” 

“I dunno. She—I liked her. She was sweet.”

“First girlfriend?” 

“Nah...I snogged a couple girls before her. Some were serious and some weren’t.” 

“Serious? Hmm. Sounds interesting.”

“How so?”

I shrugged. “I—I dunno. I’ve never even kissed a boy before, so it’s...interesting to hear about someone else’s romantic escapades.”

“Romantic escapades.”

“Yes.”

“Romantic. Escapades.”

“What?” I chuckled. “Why is that so—” 

“You’re funny, Alex.” He put his arm around my shoulders for a moment. “I think I’ll keep you around.”

“What??” I asked excitedly. “What do you mean?”

“Not sure yet. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” He briefly rested his chin on the top of my head before he got up and walked away.

 _Don’t you DARE pull this shit again! I didn’t even upset you this time!_

“What are you—”

“Catch ya later!” he called out cheerfully. He all but raced to the staircase leading down to the boys’ dorms. Just like he’d done a few weeks earlier. 

My head was spinning. My heart was racing. Did he _like_ me? Was he trying to tell me that he had feelings for me? Why couldn’t he just say it outright? _He put his freaking arm around me!_ What did that mean? And why did he run away right afterwards? What the hell was he scared of? 

And so the litany of questions about Matthew’s behavior continued to grow.

*   *   * 

I woke up feeling wildly excited on my fourteenth birthday. This wasn’t just any birthday: Matthew had promised to get me ‘something special’ over winter break; especially as a thank-you, considering how much he’d enjoyed the book I’d bought him for his birthday. I couldn’t wait to see what his present was. 

I was also relieved that he hadn’t run away abruptly since I’d asked him about Jackie—perhaps that was simply his default response when someone touched on a topic he wasn’t comfortable discussing? I seemed to have figured out his triggers pretty well; so as long as I toed the line and figured out how to slowly inch closer to his walls, he would become more comfortable with me and let his guard down eventually. He just had to. He wouldn’t keep coming back to me, always acting like nothing had happened, if he truly found my questions off-putting.

My birthday dragged on sluggishly; I kept breathing deeply, trying to contain my excitement over Matthew’s gift. What was it? A book? A piece of jewelry? A date? 

The latter was the best present I could imagine. Maybe we would go to Hogsmeade together, and wander around before landing in The Three Broomsticks. Maybe we would snuggle up in a corner booth as we sipped butterbeer, and he’d finally loosen up enough to tell me that he wanted to be with me. I would, of course, tell him the same, and he would call me _his_. Maybe he’d even kiss me right there, no longer self-conscious about who could see us together. And then we’d sneak into a secluded alley, hand in hand, and do all the unspeakable things I’d been aching to do with him since we’d met. Or maybe we’d get a room for the night. No one could possibly interrupt us there.

Though my imagination was running wild, I begrudgingly admitted that Matthew’s gift was likely a small material object. But what was it? And when would he present it to me? Under what circumstances? 

Frantic curiosity aside, I was also anxious because I hadn’t seen him all day, even during breakfast and lunch. I searched for him in between all of my classes, trying not to look too weird as I craned my neck in every possible direction before my shoulders slumped in defeat and I strode off to my next lesson. Matthew wasn’t hiding from me again, was he? We hadn’t talked about any touchy subjects in weeks, and he’d always been happy to see me since term had resumed. I usually saw him in between Transfiguration and History of Magic, so why wasn’t he around? 

Maybe he was sick. Should I have checked the infirmary, just to calm my nerves? No, there was no time. And _I_ wasn’t sick; there was no reason for me to be in the hospital. I still had classes, and I knew Madam Pomfrey would never tell me who she was treating—she still hated my guts because of my shenanigans during first year. And if Matthew were ill and I’d barged in just to find out if he was healthy enough to spend time with me on my birthday, I would look beyond selfish. I had to be mature. Matthew would never want to date an overgrown baby with no patience.

At last, the day’s classes came to an end. Trying not to lose my nerve, I walked slowly and deliberately into the Great Hall for dinner and did my best to keep my face relaxed as I sat down—even though I wanted to both bounce in my seat and bang my fists on the table, screaming in frustration. That was probably why I squeaked in surprise when I suddenly heard a whispered _Happy birthday, hun!_ directly in my ear. I grinned impishly as Matthew’s arms encircled my shoulders. 

“Thaaaanks!” I giggled. I squeezed his forearms—in both affection and relief—while he swayed us back and forth before sitting down next to me amid a chorus of whoops and whistles from our nearby Housemates. It was hard for me not to cheer along with everyone—Matthew was here, he was happy to see me, and he was willingly sitting next to me. Everything was fine. I had been worried for nothing, just like I’d done before. Merlin, I really needed to get my shit together. 

I couldn’t resist a glance toward the Ravenclaw table. 

 _Hey, Jackie, you watching this? I never saw him get this affectionate with YOU, sweetcheeks. And I certainly didn’t see your Housemates cheering when he snuck up and hugged you from behind. You never had a fucking chance._  

The blonde barbie doll bitch certainly seemed to have heard my thoughts, especially given my triumphant sneer when she caught me looking at her—well, more like staring her down. I didn’t turn back around until her eyes dropped to her lap, her lips quivering. Thankfully, Matthew had missed my moment of passive aggressiveness. I lost the snark in my facial expression and grinned sweetly when he next looked my way.

Though itching to ask Matthew what he’d gotten me for my birthday, I didn’t want to appear greedy or demanding. My only tell was squirming in my seat as he asked me about my day—but that could have meant anything. Matthew didn’t seem to notice.

I didn’t even see the other people sitting near us, and it seemed he’d forgotten their presence as well. It was just the two of us, talking nonstop with our eyes glued to each other until dinner was over. The spark in his eyes made my heart flutter more than ever.

I was so happy, I even offered him a bite of my birthday cake. He took it.

With my fork.

 _Oh my god. Did you seriously just—_

“You okay, birthday girl?” he asked, while tickling my waist. My face must have looked ridiculous.

“Y-yeah, I’m great! Can I...have my fork back?”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry.” He gracelessly returned the utensil and I finished my cake in silence, chuckling every so often. 

 _I just swapped spit with him. Was that a sign??_  

We walked back to the Slytherin dungeons together, once more oblivious to everyone around us. He put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder, making me melt like only he could. I snaked my arm around his back and returned the squeezes, wishing time to stand still for at least an hour.

Unfortunately, the Slytherin dungeons were only a five-minute walk from the Great Hall. Much less than the hour I wanted to spend reveling in Matthew’s affection. We sat down on a couch in the common room, with his arm still around me, and fell silent for a while. I rested my head on his shoulder, and smiled as I felt his cheek pressed against the top of my head. My eyes slowly closed as I sagged against him.

I could have easily fallen into a sleepy, contented stupor, basking in the glow of being so close to my love—Merlin, I was fucking _cuddling_ with him, and he wasn’t freaking out. My efforts at getting closer to him were clearly paying off. I felt both smug and excited for the future. 

As much as I enjoyed our current position, though, there was still an elephant in the room and I could no longer ignore it. I reluctantly lifted my head up and nudged Matthew gently.

“Hey, um...” I stammered. “You mentioned... _something special_ a few weeks ago?” 

He didn’t appear to have anything concealed in his robes, so I wondered if the _something special_ was a kiss. Or a date, like I’d been imagining all day. Merlin, I’d have taken that over material objects anytime. My core throbbed in anticipation. 

He shifted awkwardly and said that he’d forgotten to buy me a present. But how was that possible? He knew when my birthday was—even if the date had slipped his mind when I’d mentioned it, the list of students’ birthdays was still visible in the Great Hall every month. So how could he have forgotten? I asked him, and he said that he’d been caught up with studying for his NEWTs. He appeared to feel bad for disappointing me; but again, there was something more under the surface.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I blurted without thinking. 

He looked at me like I had just shouted a dark secret to everyone in the common room. “N-nothing,” he mumbled. “I gotta go. I hope you...enjoy the rest of your birthday.” He lightly touched my hand and then disappeared. 

_God damn it._

Why was he doing this? How could he be all over me one minute, and then desperate to get away the next? And why had he told me that he’d get me a birthday present if the date hadn’t been important enough for him to remember? 

I stormed down the stairs to my dorm and punched my pillow as hard as I could.

“Fight with your boyfriend?” Ashlee asked. Yet again, my heart fluttered at the word _boyfriend._ And I hated myself for it. 

“He’s not my fucking boyfriend!” I growled, trying to cover the flutter in my chest with indignant rage. 

“Whooaaa, easy there, I thought he was. You’re all over each other! You two are practically attached.”

“Whatever,” I grumbled, before yanking my curtains closed.

It took me two hours to fall asleep that night. Happy fucking birthday. 

*   *   *

I continued tolerating Matthew’s disjointed behavior for a lot longer than I should have. Refusing to believe that he wasn’t right for me, I viewed him almost like a male version of myself: wounded, misunderstood, and yet full of promise, as long as someone supported him through his moody spells and tolerated his bad behavior during those moments. We all had off-days; why should I expect mine to be endured if I wouldn’t give a loved one the same courtesy? And besides, even though he sometimes acted like an asshole, he was still there for me more than anyone had ever been. And I knew I was returning the gesture. I simply could not give up on him.

When he apologized for not getting me a birthday present, I couldn’t help but feel relieved—especially when he gave me puppy-dog eyes and asked, “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?” Apparently, he’d lacked the money to buy me a gift, and he hadn’t felt comfortable admitting that before my birthday. He conceded that he’d run out on me from embarrassment and guilt, not a desire to escape my presence.

How could I possibly remain angry after hearing that? He’d never before acknowledged his escapism, much less explained it.

I melted at his words—not for the first time—and felt that familiar relief rising once more as I realized that my anxiety over him had been for nothing. He cared about me, he wanted to spend time with me, and he liked being physically close to me. More than he’d been before the holidays. We were surely heading in the right direction.

I wasn’t the only one assuming that we would be dating soon: as Ashlee (and many others) had observed, he and I were practically attached. When we weren’t in class, we now sat together during almost every meal and studied together fairly often. Our cuddle sessions in the common room were happening almost every evening. Though our physical behavior had still not entirely risen to significant-other territory, everyone assumed it would ascend to that level shortly. As such, Francesca stopped coming over to the Slytherin table during meals, not wanting to interrupt my time with my love. She settled for hearing me gush about him when he was out of earshot. 

I told her what went on between us, and she encouraged me to continue trying to get through to him. Though she found his guardedness perplexing, she also insisted that I hadn’t done anything to warrant his running away. Granted, she looked up to me and thus couldn’t understand why _anyone_ would reject me—friend or love interest—but she also saw how we acted together when he was in a good mood, and insisted that he couldn’t be faking his attraction to me. We were _adorable_ together and we would one day be the _cutest_ couple ever! She couldn’t _wait_ until we _finally_ hooked up! 

I promised not to disappoint her. Or myself. 

Though Francesca observed my strange relationship with Matthew from the sidelines, sometimes it was him and me on the sidelines—watching Francesca play Quidditch. She was the Ravenclaw Chaser. I still had no interest in Quidditch, but I knew my reputation would improve if I showed up for all of my best friend’s matches, cheering her on as if I were just as enthusiastic as the rest of the crowd. And it _was_ another excuse to spend time with Matthew. He was ambivalent to the sport, but liked Francesca enough to willingly join me to watch her play. And since some of our other friends liked the game as well, it became a group activity.

Sometimes he and I watched the games, and sometimes we got wrapped up in talking to each other instead. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the reactions of nearby spectators: calling me Matthew’s girlfriend—which he didn't refute—when they saw his arm around me and my head on his shoulder, or telling us to get a room if we got a bit too aggressive in our play-fighting. Francesca threatened to throw a Bludger at us if we didn’t stop pawing at each other during Quidditch matches. Thankfully, neither of those things happened—she didn’t throw a Bludger at us, and we didn’t stop pawing at each other. And sometimes, “pawing” was a bit of an understatement.

One particularly memorable moment occurred when Matthew made me laugh so hard, I near choked on the granola bar I was eating. He then slipped behind me, placed his arms around my waist, and subtly dry-humped me while passing it off as the Heimlich maneuver; he was moving his pelvis more than his arms. And he continued this motion for at least a minute after I’d stopped coughing. Since the stands were packed and everyone else was focused on the match, no one realized what he was doing...and I couldn’t exactly ask him about it. Not that I had any issues with feeling him moving against me in such a fashion—I’d only wished he’d been facing me. Lying in my bed. Naked. I bit my lip and squeezed my thighs together.

“Is that better?” he asked with a smirk when he finally moved back to stand beside me.

“Loads!” I giggled. And then I wondered if he’d caught my double entendre. Regardless, he kept his arm around me for a few more minutes as we returned our attention to the Quidditch pitch. 

I looked forward to Quidditch matches not simply to spend time with Matthew; I wanted to get him more accustomed to having me in his favored environment. He was always more relaxed and playful in public than in private. I was steadily inching my way closer to him, and he finally grew comfortable enough to open up to me a bit more. He still ducked out every time I tried to break down yet another one of his walls, but he always came back to me. I was rubbing off on him—literally and figuratively, given the granola bar incident. He finally began revealing small details about his family, allowing me to start painting a clearer picture of his family. 

For example, his mother had died when he was fourteen. Her sudden death had traumatized his father, William, and virtually estranged the older man from his brother, Matthew’s uncle Mundungus. William was the type to stay in the shadows and never reveal his personal beliefs, but Mundungus was more carefree, jolly, and a tad opportunistic. Though he had a history of petty thievery, Mundungus had joined the Order of the Phoenix, a group of activists hell-bent on defeating Voldemort. The man proudly bragged that he was on the right side of history—he was presumably more smug about positioning himself as an ally to Muggleborns, rather than actually _being_ an ally. Be that as it may, William had begged Mundungus to leave the organization, especially after losing his wife, but the stubborn man had refused.

Rumors were swelling that Voldemort was now killing off Order members, and Matthew wasn’t sure if his uncle would be safe for much longer. He didn’t share his thoughts with his father, however, because the older man couldn’t handle even the potential for another loss. Since Mundungus didn’t echo his brother’s caution, the two men had drifted apart over the past few years. Matthew hadn’t seen his uncle in quite some time. 

Matthew and his father never talked about his mother after her death. In fact, William hardly ever wanted to talk about feelings at all, good or bad. He’d been a reserved man long before his wife’s passing, but he’d become even less pleasant to be around since then. When I asked Matthew how his mother had died, he shook his head and refused to tell me. He wouldn’t even say her name. 

And so the pieces of the puzzle finally began coming together.

William didn’t set out to be a controlling asshole; he was fronting. The man didn’t know how to deal with his feelings, and so he repressed them. And then he tried to shield his son from emotional pain by hardening him and controlling his behavior so that he could feel more powerful than he really was.

Matthew never explicitly stated any of this, but he didn’t have to. He was right: I _was_ really intuitive, as I’d always known. To use his own eloquent words, I _figured shit out._ (It also didn’t hurt that I’d been researching psychology on the side.) As I ruminated on his latest news, a strange concept entered my mind: perhaps he wanted his stern father’s approval, and was therefore afraid of feeling his feelings.

_Maybe, when he abruptly stopped talking to me and walked away, he wasn’t running from me...maybe he was running from himself._

That realization should have been the warning I needed to distance myself from Matthew, but I ignored the alarm bells as usual. I had to get to the bottom of this. Why was he running from himself, even at school, where his father couldn’t see him? I needed him to admit the truth, so I could prove to him that he was still lovable after baring his soul. Weak or strong, it didn’t matter. I loved him either way. I needed to show him—and myself—how perfect we were for each other. 

I knew in my gut that, if I were able to break through his walls and give him the kind of love he and I both needed, our lives would improve drastically—even if we never received that kind of love from our own families. We’d have each other, and that would be enough.

I also knew that, if I never did get through to him, the loss of what could have been might just crush the life out of me. Something deep inside me kept whispering that I would never love like this again...so if we didn’t at least date temporarily, I would never know the experience of sheer passion and frenzied need as more than a one-sided fantasy.

I didn’t have it in me to feel this for another boy after Matthew. And I didn’t even want to. I wanted to be with him forever.

*   *   *

When the weather began warming, Matthew and I began spending a lot of time together by the lake. Sometimes we’d study, sometimes we’d stroll around hand in hand, and sometimes we’d just sit on the grass and enjoy each other’s company. I could tell that he was scared at the thought of calling me his girlfriend, but he certainly didn’t want to stop spending most of his free time with me. I hoped that if I stuck around long enough, he would get over whatever fears he had about advancing our relationship.

One evening in early March, he was feeling particularly affectionate during dinner. He kept stroking my back and playing with my hair. I leaned my head on his shoulder occasionally. I had a feeling something huge was coming. 

He brushed his hand against mine as we exited the Great Hall, trying to make it look like an accident, and then he stopped as he turned to face me. The fire in his eyes made me forget to breathe. I wanted to touch him...hold him...ask him what he was thinking—

He abruptly grabbed my face in both hands and pulled me close— _this is it, he’s finally going to kiss me!—_ and stopped just before his lips would have touched mine. I tilted my chin up as I looked into his eyes, making my intentions clear. At the last second, he moved his head and placed a hard kiss on my cheek. And then he sharply pulled away. 

“Seriously?” I asked breathlessly. My eyes widened. My heart pounded. My palms were sweaty.

“I’m sorry, I gotta go,” he whispered, a sickened expression on his tormented face as he reached out and stroked my cheek. And then he quickly inserted himself into the crowd. 

I couldn’t just chase him and start screaming. I would look insane, and make him feel better about having run away again. _Look at that crazy bitch!_ everyone would say. He’d only feel even more motivated to shut down and rebuild his walls. It didn’t matter that I’d begun figuring out what was going on, because he still wasn’t comfortable telling me the whole truth. I almost wished that he’d thought this was all a game—that he only saw me as another notch on his sword where he tallied all the hearts he’d broken. It would have been so much easier to just call him an asshole and be done with him. But I knew that wasn’t accurate. 

It suddenly occurred to me that his attraction to me would likely never blossom because he wouldn’t allow it. He was too afraid of seeking genuine happiness with a girl because he yearned for his father’s approval—but as long as he kept up like this, he would never attain either of those things. And I would never get to experience the joy of being with him. I would never know how it felt to be with the person I loved _that_ much.

Because when would I ever love like this again? When I would I ever desire anyone this intensely again? After being rejected for years, something as normal as dating someone I loved carried infinitely more weight than it would for most other people. And the fact that we _could_ have been together made the pain that much sharper.

I had just lost something so precious, compounded by the ache of having never really possessed it in the first place. 

I had to grip the wall to stop my knees from buckling. My heart felt too heavy, like a rock vibrating inside my chest that was apt to explode under the pressure of Matthew’s selfish rejection of our potential. My stomach roiled and my eyes moistened. My breath came in labored gasps.

I wasn’t going to let him get away with this. I had been patient and understanding for long enough, and I was sick of being strung along. Damaged or not, the boy had to pay. 

Whenever I’d retaliated against mistreatment, I had acted on impulse and often landed in more trouble than the offender. I wasn’t going to do that with Matthew. I was going to take my time figuring out exactly what to say to him—and, as difficult as it would be, I wouldn’t even speak to him until I was ready to unleash. And if that bothered him, so fucking be it. He’d earned it. He didn’t deserve any more affection or special treatment.

And suddenly, I wasn’t even sure if my feelings qualified as affection anymore. I was surprised at how refreshing that felt. 

*   *   * 

Everyone could tell that something was up. A few of my Housemates asked me what was wrong, and I told them I was fine; just tired. I told no one what I was up to—not even Francesca. Part of the reason she was my best friend was that she left well enough alone when she knew I didn’t want to discuss a particular topic. She took nothing personally. Like me, she was a highly intuitive person and could tell when it wasn’t appropriate to pry.

For the next few weeks, I stopped studying with my Housemates and sitting with Matthew during meals. I returned to my old habits of sitting wherever the fuck I felt like sitting, without even attempting to interact with the students nearby. It irritated me that only _now_ were people starting to pay me positive attention and ask me what was wrong, when I actually _wanted_ to be left alone. After a few sharp retorts to their questions, my Housemates got the message. I didn’t have the energy to be nice about it. 

What bothered me the most was that Matthew didn’t even attempt to talk to me during this time. It was like I meant nothing to him, and he had no problem functioning without me by his side after months of spending ample time together. One could look at him and think that I’d never even existed in his life. Whether that was true or he was just lying to himself to make himself feel better, it didn’t matter. I knew that if I never initiated contact with him again, we’d likely never speak again. I began to worry that he saw my sudden silence as an excuse to further hide from taking responsibility for his behavior—maybe I _should_ have chased him down that day and made him talk to me right then and there, in case I never got another opportunity. If that happened...if I never had a chance to get everything off my chest—I didn’t even want to think about that. He would pay for his actions, no matter what.

To rehearse the perfect presentation, I spent all my free time organizing my thoughts and planning exactly what to say.

I was ready to rumble at the end of March. I found Matthew at the Slytherin table at lunch one Saturday afternoon, and made a point to sit far away from him and pretend I hadn’t seen him. Eating was difficult—as it had been for weeks—and I struggled to finish the scant food I’d put on my plate. I stayed at the table long after I’d finished eating, only getting up when I saw Matthew stand. I was in front of him within seconds.

“I need to talk to you,” I said softly, positioning my face to reflect doe-eyed misery. Defenselessness. Urgency. I would make him hear me out if it was the last thing I ever did. 

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at his feet. “What’s up?”

“Let’s go to our spot by the lake. It’s peaceful there.” _You hear that, honey? OUR spot. We still got something. You’re not done with me yet._  

He thought for a moment—I saw his eyes dart around as he searched for an escape, but he found none. None of his friends or admirers were anywhere in sight. It was just the two of us once more. Maybe for the last time.

“Okay,” he finally responded. As nervous as I was, it was hard not to smirk in triumph as I led him out of the school.

I was still madly in love with him, and yet I wasn’t. I found most of my warm, fuzzy feelings replaced by anger and grief—grief over what could have been, had Matthew not been such a selfish coward. My heart flip-flopped between these two opposing forces all the way to the lake, and I was almost too exhausted to speak by the time we finally sat down on the grass. Almost. My energy returned as soon as I reminded myself that this was the moment for which I’d been preparing for weeks; I couldn’t afford to screw it up.

And then I exploded. 

With tears streaming down my face, I told him everything. How badly he’d hurt me. How much I loved him and how desperately I’d tried to help both of us heal together, because I could tell that no one had ever loved either of us properly before. How much I saw the real Matthew—including the twisted, tormented pieces—and loved him anyway. How some of our Housemates assumed we were dating, though he was too chickenshit to even kiss me after pawing at me for months. 

I told him of my suspicions about his father poisoning him and turning him into a coward—though in the end, it was his choice to follow that path. His father couldn’t make him do anything; he was just so accustomed to putting on airs in front of girls who adored his looks, but would recoil if they discovered his real personality. And he was now too comfortable in his toxic behaviors to want to change for the better. He was too scared to be vulnerable with anyone. He would never find happiness, on his own or with a partner, if he ran away the second someone actually saw him and loved him for his true self. 

A classic saboteur, he’d pushed me away when he’d felt I’d gotten too close because part of him had always been begging me to give up on him. He needed an excuse to stay in the same negative feedback loop inside his head: believing himself undeserving of authentic love because he was an asshole, doomed to stay that way forever. Even with our potential, the prospect of being real with me was too scary. Admitting that he had the power to change his ways terrified him so much that he’d rather keep hurting himself, and me, to avoid facing the unknown. Even if the unknown was a thousand times better than anything he—or I—had ever experienced. 

By the time I’d finally gotten everything off my chest, I was crying so hard I could barely breathe. I refused to look at Matthew. Though I could see him out the corner of my eye, I was afraid to even glance his way; would I see his face contorted in disgust? Shock? Contempt? I didn’t want to know what he was thinking—not just yet.

I buried my face in my hands and sobbed violently for what felt like hours. It was a purge: a purge of all the pain he’d caused me, disgust at my reaction to him, and grief at the knowledge that I’d never have that innocent, hopeful feeling about our relationship ever again. Every time I thought I was done crying, another wave of grief swelled inside me and my chest began heaving once more. 

When I finally lifted my head and dried my eyes, Matthew was gone.

*   *   * 

I wandered through the next month in a daze. My thoughts were fuzzy, my movements were automatic, and I felt numb all over. The perpetual glaze over my eyes seemed to scare everyone more than my former abrasiveness—no one knew how to react to my new demeanor. I went through the motions of studying, but my grades were still lower than usual and I completely stopped participating in class. In fact, I barely spoke at all, in or out of lessons. I had nothing to say.

Unfortunately, I also had an audition coming up. Professor Flitwick had been teaching the chorus a song that required a solo, and I wanted the part—at least, I’d wanted the part two months earlier. I couldn’t back out of my scheduled audition without an explanation, and I lacked the energy to create a believable story. I certainly wouldn’t tell Flitwick that I couldn’t sing because of a boy. He’d laugh in my face and tell me to get a grip on myself. And so would everybody else. I couldn’t handle such treatment while in this fractured state. 

The audition was an absolute disaster. It seemed that all my vocal training had vanished; I sang with the sloppiness of a nervous beginner who had never been onstage before. It was beyond embarrassing. I felt broken and incapable, just like my parents viewed me. I wondered if they’d been right all along, and I really _was_ just an egotistical weakling with no concept of my meager limits. The fear and anger over this possibility knotted my stomach until I nearly threw up. 

Noting my distress, Professor Flitwick allowed me to leave rehearsal early.

Thankfully, the girls’ bathroom was just down the hall. I doubled over in front of a toilet, dry-heaving and sobbing like a stupid fucking baby until I thought I could stand up straight again—apparently, I could not. I’d barely eaten in days, and the lack of nourishment had caught up with me. I yelped as my knees buckled and my rear hit the cold tile floor. I hugged my shins and cried into my knees, both from pain and embarrassment, wailing loudly until my head finally stopped spinning.

I couldn’t get up. As much as I’d always prided myself on my cleanliness and hygiene, I suddenly didn’t care that I was sitting on a public bathroom floor, my face inches away from a toilet used by dozens of people daily. But perhaps such a position was fitting—I felt filthy, inside and out. Maybe I would just embrace this feeling, and not even wash my hands before leaving the bathroom. Maybe I’d contract a bacterial infection as disgusting as I was, and I would shrivel up and die without any effort. How pathetic was I, to have allowed myself to deteriorate like this? How could I possibly survive as an adult, if one heartbreak and one failed choir audition could do this to me? How could I live with myself, knowing what I had allowed to happen?

I stared at the cubicle wall, seeing it but not. My thoughts slowed, as if in the fog between sleep and consciousness, and wished I could stay there for days. I didn’t want to go back to class, or the common room, or home for the summer. I didn’t want to see anyone or do anything but waste away. After everything I had endured, all the strength I had built appeared no more than a tumbling house of cards. My anger and self-disgust churned and smoldered and twisted my insides—or maybe that was hunger. When had I last eaten? I couldn’t remember. And I didn’t even care. 

I felt like I had failed at life. None of my accomplishments seemed worthy enough to counteract my grievous mistakes. None of it mattered anymore.

It wasn’t just that I’d botched the audition, or the reason for it. Underneath that one crappy experience was my need to be the best at every task that I valued, because of how severely my parents had stunted my growth when I was small. I hated having even _one_ off-day—especially an off-day when I had to prove my abilities—so having an off- _year_ was utterly devastating. I’d grown up with a burning need to cancel out my prior failures, after being made to feel incompetent for so long. 

Part of this drive also came from plain old ego, but that didn’t bother me. I didn’t consider it overcompensating; I saw it as catching up. But now I didn’t want to just catch up: I wanted to surpass everyone until I was so accomplished and talented and experienced that no one could ever upstage me. I needed to be the best so that if, Merlin forbid, I ever took another tumble, my accomplishment ‘savings account’ would have enough funds to still keep me ahead of the crowd.

Behind ego, however, was my primal fear of not being able to realize my full potential. _That_ was the true driving force behind my need to outdo everyone. Even though part of me still wanted to belong somewhere, the rest of me now cringed at the thought of having common flaws to which others could relate. I didn’t want to be like everyone else—I wanted to be better. I wanted to be superhuman. I hated any negative behavior that could link me to ordinary people and drag me down to their level. I’d always been this way, thirsty for knowledge and excellence and meaningful experiences, and I’d come to want nothing less than perfection.

My obsession with Matthew had dampened that fire inside me; but I could feel it gradually resurfacing, the more my fanatical love was morphing into revulsion. I was furious with Matthew for bringing such weakness out of me, and I was furious with myself for having allowed it to happen. I felt too flawed. It needed to stop. The problem was, I had no idea how to escape this downward spiral and begin rebuilding myself.

At least I was certain about one thing: I couldn’t change anything until I got up off the bathroom floor.

I had to hold onto the lip of the toilet to steady myself as I slowly rose to my feet, wincing and whimpering at the pain in my stiff muscles. I clutched my empty, contracting stomach as more tears eked out of my puffy eyes. Had Matthew ever cried over me? Over his behavior toward me? I tried to picture him looking ridiculous with his eyeliner smudged all over his face from sobbing, but all that did was make me want to hold him and soothe his pain.

I kicked the wall in frustration. How could I still love him after everything he’d done? What the fuck was wrong with me?

I pondered my bizarre state for a moment, once more paralyzed with fear. And then, suddenly, a peculiar thing happened: fear and self-pity gave way to pure fury. Strength flowed from a small place in the pit of my stomach, and gave me enough energy to open the stall door and wash my hands. A small gesture, but not one I’d been able to accomplish fifteen minutes prior. I guess I wouldn’t be dying from a bacterial infection after all. 

*   *   *

My desire to raise my grades began returning through this new rage, but I lacked the focus and discipline to make it happen. My mind was still fuzzy all the time. Every time I opened a textbook, I felt drained. I didn’t _want_ to study—all I wanted to do was rest and recover. Unfortunately, given the season, I couldn’t afford to fall off the wagon. It was already mid-May and I was grossly unprepared for finals. I felt like a failure of epic proportions.

I didn’t have time to properly recuperate at school, and I certainly wouldn’t have time to do so at home. My parents would be all over me if they knew how I felt. _What happened? I thought you were dating that boy! What did he do? Merlin, of all the things you’ve endured, how could a lousy boy be the thing that makes your grades slip? How can you call yourself strong? You really need to toughen up!_ And on and on it would go. I wouldn’t be able to handle it.

I didn’t want to admit my weaknesses out loud. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to be alone in my own little bubble with no ties to the outside world until I was ready to rejoin society—if I ever would be ready. (Society never wanted _me,_ though.) Could I maybe find a way to make a life all alone, without having to interact with other people ever again? Probably not. That was just childish wishful thinking; I was supposed to be above such nonsense.

I was supposed to be above a lot of other childish behaviors that I was still struggling to shake off. Supposed to be, but likely incapable of achieving. My stomach burned and my fists clenched. 

For the briefest moment, I wondered if I’d be better off dead. I didn’t know if I even had the courage to keep living, after allowing a stupid boy to warp me into something so weak and immature. Grinning like a five-year-old because a boy put his arm around me and thought my accent was cute? Daydreaming about getting married when I was only fourteen? Good lord. How babyish had I been?! I could hardly look at myself in the mirror, knowing what I had become. Maybe I could repeat my episode in the bathroom stall, but actually contract a fatal infection this time. Madam Pomfrey would probably be relieved if I told her to ignore me and just let me die. 

I didn’t want to put forth any more effort at functioning when I didn’t feel safe caring for myself. What kind of a life was that? The closest I’d ever come to finding acceptance had been for nothing, and I was now left feeling even more broken than I’d been as a small child. Maybe jumping off the Astronomy Tower would be the best solution.

No. I had to live. I couldn’t die just because I’d gotten my heart broken once. There had to be more to life than this; I just didn’t know how to find it right now. And I was terrified that I never would. 

*   *   * 

All my fear and pain and embarrassment burst out of me one Saturday afternoon at the end of May. I was sitting by the lake, where I used to sit with Matthew, trying to make myself feel like this was just a regular spot where many students passed the time. There was nothing special about it, and I could surely remember how it felt to be here before I’d met that stupid boy. I could surely stop loving him if I tried hard enough. 

The harder I tried to feel nothing, the more emotional I grew, until I finally burst into tears. For likely the twentieth time that month. It was one of the first times in my life that I actually allowed myself a moment of self-pity. And I hated myself for needing it. Why did I have to do something so weak and immature? I was supposed to be better than this! I was supposed to be stronger than this! Again, I wondered: were my parents right after all, when they called me incompetent and out of touch? How capable was I, really, if I couldn’t even handle one heartbreak without all the wheels coming off? Merlin, I was pathetic.... 

“My mother was kidnapped and murdered by a jealous ex,” mumbled a familiar deep voice, jolting me out of my crying jag. I looked up and saw Matthew sitting next to me. My mouth went dry. 

“It happened while my father stayed late at work one night. He never faced the pain of her murder because he blamed himself for not having been home to protect her. It wasn’t her death alone that broke him; it was that he felt responsible. He’s still punishing himself to this day...and it feels like he’s punishing me, too.” 

I blinked. Was Matthew really sitting next to me again? Had he really gone out of his way to see me, without being asked? Was he actually confiding in me, and not leaving anything out? I dared not believe it, until he continued speaking. 

“Ever since her death, my father has not once told me he loved me. And if I said it to him, he either ignored me or rolled his eyes and told me not to _get soft on him_. He won’t even hug me anymore. The closest thing to love he’ll show me is a clap on the back, which feels more forceful than affectionate. There is no weakness allowed in my father’s house.”

My thoughts were scrambling again. I could barely stand to look at Matthew, and yet I couldn’t stand to look away.

“You’re the first person to say _I love you_ to me since my mother died, and really mean it. I’ve dated girls who said it, but not with such...sincerity. They probably don’t even know what real love is.” 

“And you?” I countered. “Do _you_ know what real love is?” 

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t think you do, either. And I think you’re scared to figure it out. _That’s_ your problem: you’re scared of your own feelings, and even your _potential_ feelings, because you want to impress your dad. You don’t want to admit that you’re allowing his problem to become yours because you’re afraid of separating yourself from him. That, to me, is weakness. Everyone has feelings. And pretending you don’t is just stupid.”

“Look, Alex...everything you said was true. I never, ever meant to hurt you. Especially not this much. I feel really guilty.” 

 _Feel as guilty as you want. I’m not letting you back in unless you fucking apologize, asshole._  

“It doesn’t matter what you _feel;_ it matters what you _did!_ I don’t care how much you beat yourself up for the way you treated me, because the damage is done. Feeling bad about it doesn’t change anything. Sympathy is not productive.”

“I’m not looking for sympathy—”

“I meant _you_ feeling sympathy for _me_ because you know I’m in pain! How you feel about your behavior changes nothing unless you do something about it.” _Like apologizing. Which you seem reluctant to do. Coward._

“I didn’t know what to do. Alex, you...you know things about me...that I don’t tell _anyone._ No one has ever...just—”

“Figured you out?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve always known that you’re intuitive, but the way you just— _see_ people...Merlin, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. And it scared the shit out of me.” 

“You don’t say. I don’t have to remind you that what you say and what you do don’t match.” 

It was hard not to smirk as he visibly shrunk before me. I wasn’t going to make this easy for him. If he wanted my forgiveness, he would have to fucking work for it.

“Look, I’m...it took a lot for me to tell you all of this. I’ve never told anyone how my mom died. They know it’s not something I ever discuss.” 

“Are you seriously looking for a pat on the back for confiding in me?!” I yelled. I folded my arms across my breasts—which were getting a bit too big for my liking—and looked daggers at my former friend. Or sort-of boyfriend. Or whatever the fuck he was.

“Merlin, no! I’m trying to show you that you’re...important to me. We’ve known each other long enough that we can talk about things like this. That’s what friends do. And I hope we’re friends forever.”

_Friends. Yeah. I see what you’re doing._

“Okay, so we’re _friends._ You don’t like me _that_ way. I get it. But you can’t tell me you never felt _something._ Everyone saw it. They all thought we were dating! You can’t tell me that everyone who has ever seen us together is delusional—well, technically you can, but it would be a pretty dick move.” 

“I don’t know how I feel. I’ve never been sure because—because of everything you just said. You were right, okay? I don’t know if I could ever have had the kind of relationship that you wanted. Sometimes I wanted to date you and sometimes I just wanted to, like, mess around—hook up with no commitments attached, you know? But I could tell you wanted so much more, and that made me nervous. I didn’t know how to act. I didn’t know how to tell you all this; so I thought if I just kept my mood light, you would...I dunno...maybe find it funny instead of being miserable. I thought if I could... _show_ you what was happening instead of telling you outright, I wouldn’t have to say anything because you’d be intuitive enough to figure it out. And you are.”

“Don’t try to flatter me. I don’t fall for that shit.”

“I’m not trying to flatter you! I—I care about you a lot, Alex. _A lot.”_  

“And how exactly do you define _caring?_ We seem to have different definitions of that word.” 

“I just—I like you. I like being near you. You’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re gorgeous. I like your wit. I’ve grown a good deal attached to you. You know that. I can—” He paused, as if debating whether or not to continue being so brutally honest. “I can be more than a friend if you want, but I can’t be what you need me to be.” 

I could tell that he was using his pain as an excuse for having treated me badly because he was too scared to apologize; but I took comfort in the fact that he at least had confirmed my suspicions. I wondered if maybe we could still be together at some point; though it would never be the way it could have been in the beginning. I couldn’t look at him the same way again—all bright-eyed and hopeful, unaware of how much pain he would cause me. I wanted that desperately, but that innocence was long gone. And it was never coming back. That loss cut me to the core. 

My mind was in a fog as Matthew and I walked back to the castle together, our fingers occasionally brushing against each other. He gave me a gigantic hug before we parted ways in the Slytherin common room, ignoring the murmurs of our Housemates. My insides began doing somersaults as I watched him walk away.

*   *   * 

I realized over the next few weeks that I still felt deeply wounded, but also hopeful. It was a strange combination—like I was on the tail end of a severe illness that had been battering my immune system for weeks, but I could now  _almost_ taste the sweetness of the air again as my sinuses slowly cleared.

Part of me wanted to kick Matthew in the balls as hard as I could and tell him to go fuck himself, but his magnetism was too strong for me to completely get over him just yet. At fourteen years old, I was a total hornball with nowhere to channel my urges except inside my head. Fantasizing about Matthew, even just talking or kissing, was too soothing for me to banish altogether—these thoughts helped me shut out the pain of reality better than anything ever had before. I figured that if I could at least reduce the intensity and duration of these daydreams, maybe I could find a healthy balance between fantasy and reality. And maybe Matthew and I could find a happy medium in our relationship—whatever type of relationship it was. He suggested calling us _friends with benefits,_ but I told him to cool it. I didn’t want to get wrapped up in technicalities.

*   *   * 

I finished my fourth year at Hogwarts as fifth in my class. Though still not fully back to myself, I’d managed to pull myself together enough to score high marks on my exams and raise my academic position. It was an improvement from tenth place, but still not good enough for my liking. I needed that top spot, and vowed to get back up there once term resumed. I would review all the difficult fourth-year material over the summer to make sure I understood everything perfectly before delving into my fifth-year textbooks in August. 

Matthew completed his education after finals. I was dazed all through the graduation ceremony—I was almost afraid of what I would feel without him at Hogwarts in September, but maybe that separation would be a good thing. Or maybe his absence would send me into another tailspin. I was equal parts desolate and proud as I heard McGonagall call out his name to receive his diploma.

We sat together on the Hogwarts Express and promised to keep in touch. Morgan and Francesca sat across from us, talking quietly while I focused all my attention on Matthew. Though part of me was happy that we were still friends, with the potential to become more, I knew we’d never return to our happy-go-lucky beginnings, back when I was excitedly plotting different ways to get Jackie out of the picture. As I watched him look out the window, I felt a sharp pang in my chest. I missed the beginning of our friendship so much, it hurt. 

I didn’t feel all there. I still wasn’t myself. Or maybe I was changing. Maybe I had the capacity to be infinitely more caring than I’d previously thought, if the right people motivated me. This concept repulsed me, as it felt so wrong, but then I wondered if being softer might make my life easier. If I became more sensitive and considerate, the world would react better to me, and I wouldn’t have to expend so much energy placating everyone by hiding my darkness. Maybe I would feel more peaceful inside.

But then a new, disturbing thought surfaced: was I really _turning into_ something else, or was I just not myself right now? Was I acting out of character because my personality was changing, or was there a repressed wound that my subconscious was trying to show me, and the pain of beginning to notice it was warping my behavior? I hadn’t the faintest idea. All I knew was that, as I stepped off the Hogwarts Express and introduced Matthew and Francesca to my parents, I had no clue who I was anymore. Everyone said that such confusion was normal for teenagers, but I’d always had a better handle on understanding myself than most other kids—before this past year, anyway. Maybe I wasn’t quite as insightful as I’d initially assumed.

I had a lot to think about this summer.


End file.
